Zombageddon

Tree House to House

2010-07-20T08:40:00.003-06:00

50 yards away.

My savage moment turned into Darwinian Reality TV. Hungry, dehydrated and shaking I somehow mustered up enough energy to burst into a sprint toward my mom and dad’s house from the tree house whose ground was littered with “my” dead. I was in broad daylight now and whimpered like a baby as I ran, hoping to God there was still someone left to run to in that house.

40 yards away.

It occurred to me that pounding on the front door or breaking a window was probably not a good idea. I would have to be more discreet. My eyes search for the old TV antenna attached to the house. I could get to the roof.

30 yards away.

As I pass the neighbors’ house directly across from my Mom and Dad’s I hear a snort and glance over my shoulder to see the blond obese neighbor’s wife (what was her name – Gilda?) in a blue flowered mumu begin to give chase in a rambling, tottering way. Like a deadly, slow-rolling blueberry. Well, more like “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” minus the rolling dollies. Ugh.

20 yards away.

I am almost there. The antenna is there. I am breathless even though I have a huge gain on Fatty Gilda. She is struggling, even in death, to work her body to hustle towards food. A grotesque series of snorts eminates from her taxed and clogged lungs. As co-dependent on food in death as she was in life, her flaw works to my advantage.

10 yards away.

Almost there. I don’t scream or call out. I reach the metal antenna and Fatty is only half way across the yard. I grab one rung. The next rung. The metal is cool under my hands. The next. I reach the wood-shingled roof that offers a soft angle – enough to climb up – to reach the chimney. At the apex I clutch the bricks of the chimney while cautiously and as quietly as possible approaching a window to peak in. Before I draw closer the next window opens: “Sarah!!” The voice I heard calling me to dinner all through my youth. I scramble over and crawl into the house through the window and I fall sobbing into the salvation of my mother’s arms.

Served Cold

2010-04-08T17:01:00.002-06:00

The need of the undead is perfect.

I realized this as I ran, as the rage and despair began to filter from my mind, began to drop away with each pounding step of my feet, with each yard that I ran toward the house, toward the gunman, toward the hordes of the undead.

Of course, I was far from perfect, my need, my body, my spirit, even my desire to keep on living was imperfect.

It had to be so. Imperfection, it seemed to me, defined us, marked us as individual, as fully human. It is what separated us from them, from the implacable, horrible perfection of their need. As I ran, as the exertion of exhausted muscles forced once more into strained and improbable service cleared the emotion from my mind, I began to hope that this difference, this imperfect need of mine would save me.

-----

Finn’s cries acted like a dinner bell to the undead. I made no efforts to comfort or quiet him; no efforts even to avoid his jostling. I wanted his cries, hoarse, terrified, constant. Let Finn use his breath to call them. I needed my own breath right now. Gnarled, weary, bone tired, but no longer carrying the extra weight of a sedentary office lifestyle, I ran toward the gathered undead.

They turned toward me almost immediately. Some of the fresher ones began to run. They came fast and hard, holding nothing back. I turned quickly running parallel now the farmhouse. Like hellish dominoes one by one they turned from the farmhouse as they heard Finn’s cries and began toward me. A pack of the quick ones began to form, nearly twenty strong. Many more of the slower ones staggered, dragged, or crawled behind. The quicker ones were gaining on me now, closing the gap, not having to pace themselves. My lead dwindled. Fifty yards away and gaining with each step, the freshly undead sprinted greedily toward me.

Shots from the nut in the farmhouse broke the afternoon. I dared a glance back and saw one of the undead drop and flail. Another shot kicked up dirt behind me. Clearly the first shot that took down the ghoul a moment ago was a miss by the shooter. I changed direction when I reached the opposite edge of the farmhouse. I now had every ghoul’s attention, and began to run away from the farmhouse, back toward the silo from whence I came. The zombies trailed behind me, stretching back in order of their swiftness. The quickest continued to gain on me, my lead dwindling to less than 25 yards. More shots kicked up dirt behind me, each one getting closer.

As sharply as I could, I changed direction, angling now back from where I came. This was the gamble. Everything rested on this decision. I ran harder now, as fast as I could, running back toward the ghouls, at a slight angle from my original path, back toward the farmhouse.

The ghouls closest on my heels attempted to change direction, to follow like freight cars the engine of their need as if hitched to my trajectory. Others who were further behind and could change direction quicker did so, stumbling into the path of their hungry compatriots, neither party willing to call it, neither able to veer from their need, to avoid each other. They crashed together, stumbling and falling, their once almost orderly procession now in disarray as each of their ruined minds attempted to correct them, to put them on a new course toward the dinner bell. Each of them failing to take heed of obstacles, of each other, a glance back brought some satisfaction that most of them were bumping and colliding, falling into one another. My tactic seemed to have confused the shooter as well. More shots rang out, but the distance between myself and the clouds of kicked-up dirt lengthened. The shooter would have to try again, would have to reorient his aim to my new trajectory and try to dial me in again.

Another course correction now, this one slight and I was heading toward the farmhouse door. Two of the fresh ghouls were hot on my track, but the rest of the brat pack that had been trailing me so closely had lost time, stuck in a sea of reaching arms and flailing limbs. They made no efforts to untangle themselves from each other, merely attempted to push between and through one another, causing more problems for them, giving me more time.

I was almost to the farmhouse, was headed toward the door. I picked up speed again, felt my legs screaming in protest, my lungs burning. Still running, I began to turn, twist my frame even as I ran so that all of the force of my body would concentrate onto my shoulder and hip. As I did so, I angled Finn, still howling in protest, up and back, and crashed into the front door of the farmhouse, the undead only moments behind me.

The impact was sudden, much more jarring than I had expected. My shoulder burst into agony, and then thankfully went numb. The door buckled, exploding into the house and sending wooden shrapnel through the air. I staggered, nearly losing everything, nearly falling, knowing there would be no chance to get up. With a lunge, I regained my balance and ploughed ahead, first sighting the stairs, and plunging recklessly upward. At any moment the gunman could appear, take me out with a quick shot, even the most cursory wound now would be enough to lose the fractional edge I had on the pursuing undead.

At the top of the stairs was a 90 degree bend that led into the hallway. The bend bought me another second, maybe two as the nightmares behind me fought to negotiate past one another. I sprinted forward, guessing that the shooter was in the middle bedroom, shooting from the best angle the house provided, using as a rest the ledge of the the window overlooking the roof that divided the first floor from the second. Another door, this one closed. I skid to a stop, tried the knob, found it unlocked and burst into the room, feeling the fetid breath of the undead just behind me.

I threw myself to the side as hard and fast as I could, clutching Finn like a football, protectively trying to curl and roll as I neared the hardwood floor. The undead were just behind me, and straight ahead of them, an old man, decked in overalls, a stained white tee shirt and brandishing that damn rifle. The first shot missed me by luck or by fate and buried itself in the first pursuing ghoul. The sound of the rifle in that enclosed space was enormous, earth-shatteringly loud. Three more ghouls pushed past the first zombie who was slowed but not stopped by the high powered round. They raced toward the sound of the gunshot, toward the prey immediately before them, forgetting Finn and I, focused now on the incredulous, hateful man in front of them, each of them singular in their focus, perfect in their need. Slinking silently back out of the room, and quietly running to the bedroom at the end of the hallway, I heard the screams of the old man as they tore him apart. That goddamn rifle didn’t go off once.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 10

2009-10-19T15:29:00.003-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor :Documentation
Classification : Altercation[violent,zed class(3)]

Region >> Chicago,greater

Type >> Handwritten
Delivery >> Bound Journal

Primary Principal >> Chris
Primary Assumptions >> Male ; 20-40 ; caucasian ; Native
Secondary Principal >> Jen (alias:"Babe")

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Record Source Data>> Copy of original text follows:

Entry #1

I thought I died yesterday.

Which, in a number of ways, has proven to be a liberating experience. A number of my previous audio entries are most likely lost, as the unexpected zombie assault has done a great deal of damage to my digital recorder. I will be hanging on to it, even though I don't expect to have the time or resources in the future to attempt the data recovery. That being said, I will be moving forward with a written journal of my experiences. A major reason, besides the retention of my sanity, is that I have found a profound purpose for my documentation. To explain, allow me to return to my opening statement:

I thought I died yesterday. To be more accurate, I thought that I was going to become a zombie yesterday. I had made the mistake of failing to notice that a window was partially open in the building I was camping in for the night. Unbeknownst to me, my voice must have carried out the window and into the waiting ears of some nearby zombies. While I was recording a particularly amusing haiku related entry, I was rudely interrupted as a zombie crashed through the window I was seated next to, and a mad scramble ensued. I was tossed from my chair, which my assailant was tangled up in for a few moments. I could hear more of them outside the window, so I knew that I would have more to deal with at any moment. My weapons are never far from me for a reason, and I retrieved my drywall hammer as quickly as I could.

A couple of extra pairs of groping hands were reaching inside the window frame as the first one regained its footing and lurched towards me. A wide backhand with the hammer side of the tool struck the ghoul in the temple and showered the room with thick blood, bone remnants, and the remains of an eyeball as its eye-socket exploded. As the zombie dropped, my second opponent fell in through the window in a synchronized crash to the ground. With a swift flip to the axe blade on the back of the hammer, I finished the first one off with a chop that jammed the tool into the base of the creature's skull. This was bad.

A third zombie was crawling through the window and the second one was already past the chair and motoring forward. Lacking any real weapon at the moment, I snatched up a metal trash can and smashed the zombie in the face with it. While not a killing blow, it did knock the beast backward and crashing downward onto the third assailant. I took this opportunity to retrieve the hunting knife and the pry bar from my pack. The pry bar was immediately applied to the skull of the nearest zombie in a downward brain scrambling motion. Not willing to wait its turn, the last of the attackers set on me with all of the speed it could muster. I was forced back against a desk as the creature dug its ragged fingernails into my shoulder and bicep. I turned the tip of the blade upward and jammed it through the underside of its snapping jaw and into the roof of its mouth. This provided an unexpected amount of control over the creature's movement, and I swung it sideways into a wall. A two-handed swing of the pry bar ended the conflict.

I stood there for a few minutes listening for more activity outside the window. Hearing nothing, I began to collect my items in preparation for my exodus. It was that at that moment that my impending doom became apparent. I wasn't wearing the tooth and nail resistant leather jacket or gloves as I normally would while traveling. I was only in a long sleeved shirt, which was torn open in numerous places from shards of broken glass. From the mounting pain and droplets of scarlet blood that ran from underneath the fabric, I could safely assume that my skin had been flayed open during the conflict. I drew back my soaked right sleeve to find my forearm sliced open in a dozen locations and drenched in the deep crimson blood of the undead.

Blood to blood contact.

I knew what that meant for my future: I am going to die.

This is the Day that the Lord Hath Made

2009-09-25T19:37:00.001-06:00

I don’t shoot the dead uns, no sir. Leave them dead uns right about alone. I ain’t been setting here, day after day, night after night, reading my bible, without learning a thing or two. No, I been learning all right; learn bout every time I crack this here book. Known this here day was coming since I learned bout reckoning and I tell you I weren’t too tall to my daddy ‘fore I learnt bout reckoning. This here, this is a reckoning, sure as I know it, and I ain’t about to get in the way of no reckoning. I ain’t total sure just yet which of the dark riders this is, could be pestilence, or war, or death, or hell might be God’s way of bringing all them riders together, save time, hell I don’t know. All I know is I ain’t gonna be the one standing in front of my creator telling him bout how I tried to stand in the way of his glorious destruction.
I seen them young folks running toward my homestead this afternoon and I tell you I didn’t like it one bit. I ain’t saying I’m going down there anytime soon, but them that gets stuck out in the flood they didn’t get back into Noah’s boat, and I’m not letting them folks onto my land without a fight, no sir. If the good lord chose to strand them sinners out in that sea of dead, well that smacks of god’s work to me, and I’m not gonna give not one of em no safe haven, no sir, and I don’t care a lick that little miss out there carrying a child or not. The good lord’s already judged them; ain’t for me to make no never mind about that. But they smart enough to try climbing that silo of mine and I ain’t setting here saying I heard the good lord tell me what to do but I didn’t have to think none either; I just took my rifle and set down at the window.
Used to be a good shot when I was a young man, but my hands these days, they ain’t too steady. I don’t think I got them young uns, but I know I hurt the man some. Saw em tumble on into that corn silo. Probably city folk from the sight of em. Don’t know the first thing bout a corn silo and I’d bet my last dollar they’s swallowed right up in there.
Might have made me a mistake shooting at that boy. Seemed right to me though, seemed like the holy spirit were just about guiding me, but now I got them things coming up around the homestead, seems like maybe the sound of that rifle getting em excited, and damned if that boy ain’t coming right down off that silo. Might be going home myself tonight before the sun comes down, but I tell you this here rifle of mine is gonna try like hell to take that boy with me.

The Suffering of Fools

2009-08-08T10:33:00.001-06:00

I awoke to the sound of Finn, squalling. We had managed to keep him quiet for so long, to teach him at such a young age to be silent, that his piercing cries sounded almost alien at first. My head pounding I looked toward his cries.

During the apocalypse, a man sees a lot of horrors. This is no great shock, no great revelation. It is one thing to see the myriad dead, even the living dead, but to see the slack and lifeless face of your wife is a much worse kind of tragedy. At once mundane, spouses perish every day, yet so incredibly personal, so incomprehensible, it is as if you are looking at a piece of yourself that has died. I belly-crawled to Finn who was wailing next to Colleen's body, clearly trying to elicit from her some reaction, some reassuring comfort. It was a pitiable sight, and for the first time since this madness had begun, I began to lose hope.

For years, Colleen and I had joked about being "Team Curry," but to us it was no joke. We were a team. For better or worse we had long since hitched our wagons together and had been hell-bent on making our way through our lives together. Her problems, my problems, they were always our problems. Looking at my wife, eyes open, slack and lifeless, I felt a part of me break and fall away. No more Team Curry.

I scooped up Finn, feeling how light and fragile and small he was, held him close and hushed gently into his ear. He calmed down almost at once, having learned, somehow instinctually, that there was precious little comfort left in the world, and to take what he could get. How in the world was I going to feed him? Take care of a baby in a world gone to rut and ruin?

But this was no time for planning, this was a time for survival, and revenge. To be taken by the undead, well, that was the heart of this particular darkness, but to be driven into this damnable silo by a living person, to be nearly shot and killed, to have lost my wife, to have endangered and possibly sentenced my son to death by a living breathing person; there was satisfaction to be had. I found that there was no pleasure to be had in ending the animation of the dead. Their soullesss eyes reflected no change, just a quiet indifference as they skulls were smashed in and their bodies dropped limp to the earth. The living however, I could make the living pay.

I looked around the silo, saw that the silo was about half full of grain. I estimated that distance to the bottom of the silo, and hopefully a door, and even more hopefully, a door that would swing out, was about twenty feet down. I would have to dive down, find the door, then come up and get Finn. Hopefully, the force of the grain expelling from the doorway would push the ghouls back long enough for me to get a running start.

I dove into the grain, pulled against the slick, hard kernels, but got no purchase. In a breath, I could only go about four or five feet before I had to turn back. It was hopeless.

Coming up for air, I looked to find Finn, saw him sleeping, curled up next to Colleen, moving fitfully against her body. I took in great heaving lungfuls of air, and noticed the quiet. The scraping, moaning sound of the pawing undead was, not gone, but faded. Very much faded. Cautiously, I climbed the rebar rings of the silo up the top and peered over the top. The gunshots from before must have attracted the mob of rot and ruin as they now swarmed outside the farmhouse. The vast majority of them were congregated toward the front of the house. Each of them stupidly clawing and grasping forward but none of them had yet breached the front door. I wanted in that house.

I climbed down, pulled the makeshift sling off of Colleen, knealt down and kissed her lightly on her rapidly cooling forehead. I grabbed Finn and put him in the sling, snugging him tightly against my chest, climbed up the rebar rings once more, and heaved myself and Finn up and over the side of the silo.

Cringing, silently cursing my damaged hand, and waiting for the bullet from the farmhouse to crash into my skull, I hurriedly climbed down the silo. I heard a shot ring out, then another, and another. Heart racing, I let go of the silo and fell the last ten feet to the ground, falling hard and not protecting myself with my hands as they were wrapped around Finn. Finn began to scream. The madman in the house put two more bullets into the silo above and the left of where I lay panting. Why would he be shooting at me when his home is surrounded by those creatures? I stood up, crouched low, and began to run toward the house, toward the man with the gun, and toward the hordes of undead, whose attention had now turned in our direction, and toward Finn's cries.

Heightened Senses

2009-06-19T13:52:00.002-06:00

This is what I hear and this is what I see.

Swan Song

2009-06-18T14:25:00.003-06:00

In recent years, Hollywood directors have shown a great love for using shaky-camera filming in order to provide a realistic depiction of the chaos and frantic nature of war and other life threatening situations. Something always seemed unnatural about that sort of camera work, and Maureen was discovering exactly why she felt that way. If a member of the IATSE was presenting her actions and experiences on screen, the camera would have scanned wildly side to side as she fled from the undead assailant before her. The image would have jerked sharply downward as she stumbled off of the curb and almost tumbled to the ground after her muddy boots failed to assist her in accelerating on the blacktop of the parking lot. After a few sickening jostles to bring the view level again, the screen would swiftly jerk to the right providing a wide scan of the area displaying the wild traffic and panic all around her. It would settle on the zombie, a very short distance behind her, lumbering as quickly as it could after her. With a snap, the camera would be back in front of her, frantically shimmying as she scrambled to fit her key into her car door. The door would swing open just in time to strike her attacker and send it crashing to the pavement. Screams and sirens would cry out sharply and then be swiftly muffled as the door slammed shut next to her.

Perhaps a close-up of the door locks would appear as she smashed her fingers down onto the electronic lock button, sending the set of small silver protrusions, slightly worn on the edges to a copper tone, smashing down into the door frame in order to secure her mobile fortress. The view would shift to look upwards towards her from the passenger seat in order to catch her gasp and shriek as the zombie smashed itself into the driver's side window, causing her to fumble her keys as she rushed to insert them into the ignition. Repeated thumps against the glass would echo off the plastic interior as the camera shook from the abuse the vehicle was taking. Whimpers full of barely intelligible words would escape Maureen's lips as the car's starter jumped to life with a less than confidence building grunt. The audience would now be staring at a wide shot out the front window. The wheels would turn as the four cylinder engine, which would much rather still be asleep, was forced into action by her foot, now captured in a close range floor shot, slamming the gas pedal down to the floor. The camera would slip side to side in a violent drunken manner as she swung the car around every obstacle in her path: human, automobile, and used-to-be-human. Then, perhaps they would close this segment with a wide angle crane-cam shot as she sped around the back side of the store.

Thus, would the director of photography capture the wild nature of a person fleeing for their life.

In reality, it felt nothing like that.

The most alarming difference was the sound. There wasn't much of it at all. The wails of the people, the crashing of the cars, the not so distant sirens of the emergency vehicles traveling in every direction, these things made it to her as if filtered by wads of cotton in her ears. The whole world seemed muffled, with two notable exceptions. The first was her breathing. The sound of her own surging breaths enveloped her. It was as if her inhales and exhales formed the cocoon around her head which dampened all of the other noise besetting her. A sheath which would only be penetrated by the blood soaked creature before her. Its moans and hisses sliced straight into her mind. Even as it followed her, she would swear that she could see the contortions of its face just from the creaking of it gnashing its teeth.

As for the shaky cam, it would be hard to say that the movements of her eyes and head were completely unlike the movements of the cameraman. That may have been the way it happened, but a person's vision is nothing like a camera. All of that visual stimuli had to be processed by Maureen's brain, so the final product was a bit different than what would have appeared on screen.

She floated.

Not literally, of course, but everything she experienced seemed to come at her in one smooth and steady stream. Her stumble from the curb felt less like the erratic flight pattern of a gnat and more akin to the bobbing flow of an old Cadillac with shocks that needed replacing. Her scan of the area revealed nothing but blurred masses of nondescript movement, and even the zombie on her heels appeared as nothing more than a shifting multi-hued blob. The moment it took for her to line her key up with the slot in her car door dragged on with intoxicated swaying, and the door striking the ghoul was barely noticed as she slumped into the worn cloth seat with a forceful expulsion of breath that made her eyes squint and her brow furrow in distress. The zombie's lurch towards the window elicited naught but a moderate lean away from the glass. The vehicle parked in front of her was gone, so she was able to shift into drive and pull straight through. There was no floor shattering stomp upon the pedal, as even in her state of panic, she looked both ways before entering the lane. Which was smart, seeing as how a non-drivable car would have been unbelievably inconvenient at that time. There was no violent swerving back and forth as she avoided the people and undead in her way, because she didn't avoid them. While Maureen didn't aim for them, the glaze which covered everyone in front of her made discerning their state of living difficult.

The greater factor was that she just didn't care.

A person who thinks little of other people, when faced with a life or death situation of mythic proportions, will, apparently, drive through and over whatever human shaped figure happens to be unfortunate enough to be in their path. It was a short drive for her to reach the back lane of the parking lot, and the way was quite clear of other automobiles, since it was in the opposite direction of the entrance. Behind the supermarket was a short driveway into a shipping and distribution complex. Her idea was to slip out the back way, which was a great plan. The wrench in the works appeared as she turned onto the drive and crossed into the neighboring lot. A rather large trailer was flipped onto its side and was completely blocking her only route past the long warehouses to her left and right. It was still possible to spin the car around and try to squeeze out of the supermarket entrance, so she popped the car door open and shook her head to clear the last wisps of fog from her vision.

As the door swung to its widest, Maureen's ears began to grab onto the unobstructed audio headed her way. Sharp screams and a choir of groans assaulted her. She looked back, with eyes ready to bulge from their sockets, upon the scene she had just exited, and horror began to set in. She slunk backwards, sliding against the cold sheet metal of her car's fender. The chaotic racket around her beat down on her ears, and her eyes squinted as if in response to a massive weight settling on her head.

As she rolled around the corner of her car and took her first few hurried steps towards the toppled trailer, she was overcome with the desire for some cotton.

Kent for a Day, Fool for an Unlifetime

2009-05-12T14:58:00.002-06:00

Things were starting to come together, and not a moment too soon.

There hadn't been time yet to complete a head count, but there had to be more than a hundred people bustling about the compound. Kent stood atop the easement belonging to the lumber distribution facility that occupied the space directly across from the Gerber factory he was once employed by, yet still worked at. A strange situation to be sure, but the work that was now being done there was far more important than any task undertaken there previously.

Yesterday, “survival gear” and “gear for survival” would have meant the same thing to him, but not any more. It was easy to see what products fit the new and valid description of survival gear. One needed only to look at which crates sat empty and which hadn't been opened at all.

Kent's eyes caught some movement to his right, prompting him to snap his left hand upward while pressing down with his index finger.

“Got two moaners over in G2.”

As his finger relaxed, the small two way radio in his hand cried with static for a moment before closing the transmission with a click. “Roger that,” the box squawked, “red intercepting.” Kent kept his eyes focused on the intruders as they lumbered towards the center of activity he hovered over. The rumble of an eight cylinder engine being given a healthy amount of gas ricocheted up and out of the alley between the two buildings to his South as a deep red colored Ford pickup truck shot out onto the main roadway. A medieval looking steel contraption thrust from the front of the vehicle and was stained a color which almost matched the truck's paint. The device was once a small snow plow, but it now resembled what would happen if a bus load of swords was dropped into a chicken coop.

The zombie's lack of survival instinct was obvious as they paid no heed to the vehicle roaring their way. Lining up the perfect shot took very little adjustment for the driver, and the undead were scooped up and impaled swiftly. Jaws still snapping at the man piloting the craft, the creatures struggled to break free of the razor wire that was tearing their muscles into useless bloody chunks.

The driver slung his head part of the way out of the window and bellowed, “hit it!”
A slender teenager who had been seated in the bed of the truck popped up and snatched the bright yellow rubber grip at the end of a long rod that jutted upward from the back of the truck. With a sharp tug, a winch groaned to life and began to quickly draw in the length of urethane coated cable which ran over the top of the cab and connected to the wire mesh where the zombies were ensnared. The grinding cries of metal on metal were sharper on the ears than the wire's tiny blades were on the ghouls as it constricted around them. Flesh, sinew and bone were shredded, leaving hunks of diced human and buckets of blood in a wide trail behind the pickup, as if some Lovecraftian slug had slithered its way down the street.

Four hours, Kent thought to himself. These men had four hours to get that truck ready, and they were able to construct that... thing. He couldn't help but smile. If necessity is the mother of invention, desperation gives birth to something much more profound.

“Hey, Kent?”

While not actually a question, the soft request that floated up from his feet certainly sounded like one.

“I think I worked out how to secure the walkways against the expected mob's ebb and flow.”

Seated on the roof next to him was a young man hunched down a bit too close to the screen of a rather expensive looking laptop. His crisp white dress shirt still displayed the lightly starched creases along the sleeves placed there by a dry cleaning shop which was most likely abandoned by now. The bright white was broken up by broad splatters of burgundy dried blood, which actually looked quite good next to the dark chocolate brown of his skin. On the laptop's screen was a web of intersecting lines and figures, which were mostly indecipherable to Kent. The young man wasn't on Kent's list of invitations to the compound, but he was proving to be a critical asset in the construction. Michael was his name, and he had the sort of demeanor that made it seem all too appropriate to use his whole name, rather than truncating it to something like “Mike.” He had arrived carrying his laptop and a crimson coated fire axe not long after they began securing these buildings. Apparently, he followed his college flame to the Northwest with his freshly printed structural engineering degree in hand. While the relationship left him with nothing but an empty apartment to leave his office for, his training was providing him with plenty of new friends.

“If our inventory of the available materials is accurate, we should have the resources necessary to begin constructing the preliminary support structure to allow movement between structures, prior to the final framework being assembled,” Michael was just getting warmed up. Kent squinted slightly as if his eyelashes could somehow decode the drawings that were being explained to him. It wasn't working.

With an uncharacteristically soft press against the overly engrossed man's shoulder, Kent interrupted: “Michael, I believe that you know what you're doing, so I need you to start instructing the crew on what to do, and quickly.” The radio cut him off with a yelp that was partially muffled by the palm of his hand. Once again, Kent brought the box up near his head, “go ahead.”

“The head count is finished, and it looks like we're doing better than expected. But... there's something you need to know.” No closing static jumped from the radio, so Kent knew there was more to be said, even as the silent moment dragged out to the end of his patience.

“Sharon's not here yet.”
Ssshhh-cluck. The connection snapped closed.

Kent was squinting again. This time, it was as his teeth ground down upon each other and his head turned slowly to face the East. His gaze bore down on a destination past these warehouses and parking lots, underneath the highway, through treetops and power lines and two story homes. A solid three mile long staring contest against a sandy colored split-level brick target.

Home.

Smucker's Raspberry Preserves

2009-04-28T12:02:00.003-06:00

I awake still lying on the rotten floor of the tree house shrouded in an early morning fog. My arm still throbbing with raccoon bite. The soft moans of the undead below did not go away while I was dreaming of soft Mexican beaches.

Here, the dead do not rest.

Today is the day I will need to get out of here, “here” being this tree house, this situation, this life perhaps? My stomach growls in anger. My thirst is almost unbearable. Void of modesty I drop trow and relieve myself through the cracks in the tree house floor. Any live person who might show up at this moment and happen to see me peeing would bless me with welcome embarrassment. The droplets of urine land on the little boy whose carcass stands swaying and clawing at the tree trunk.

I sit Indian-style on the floorboards for about an hour and near hysteria once again, I put one hand over my eyes as I audibly pray to God for help through cracked sobs. With the other hand I unwittingly grasp for the edge of the tree house floor. The gray dry rotted wood gave up almost immediately and I pulled and jerked the broken off piece and held it in front of my surprised face. A two-footer, sharp on one end and with just a bit of life left in the middle to provide strength. This was the answer. Halting my sobs and prayers, I got up and onto my knees and began madly yanking at the floorboard strips tearing up splinters and stubbing my thumb on a rusty nail. I was clawing for my own salvation. Dead wood for dead heads.

By the time the fog burned off and the morning sun was nearly blinding I had a good-sized pile of spikes for which I was sorting by size and strength. The larger men zombies would need to be taken out first. I gingerly lowered myself, hands sweating, on the shaky wooden tree house ladder with the largest of the makeshift spears. The undead farmer in his overalls moaned loudly and reached his rotting limbs up to reach me. And I’m just barely out of his reach as my hands shake with adrenalin – one clinging to the tree ladder and the other raised above my target. I bring it down with a powerful grunt and plant it through the top of the semi-soft cranium with a "flump". Farmer drops to his knees and then falls over, face down into the soft green grass. The other three are oblivious totheir comrade’s termination and stumble around his second-time corpse, tripping here and there.

With a slightly renewed confidence that this would work, I bared my teeth and hissed. "That's it. Get over here, you fuckers!"

I pull out another stake and took out Neighbor man likewise. The little boy, however, got it through the eye. It went deep enough to short circuit him and disgusting, smelly aqueous humor dripped out of his socket before he hit the ground. That’s all that mattered, his ending. And then the little girl was spiked through her blonde pony-tailed head, no problem. She didn't scream. The blood wasn’t even really blood but clotted and congealed like Smuckers Raspberry Preserves. I should have been throwing up by now. Is this what is called desensitizing? Or just pure survival?

I gratefully jumped to the ground, keeping low and hunched over where all four bodies lay scattered, keeping an eye out for any movement. In a moment of dramatic victory and going against my better instincts I felt a rage well up within me. I bent down to the ground and dipped two fingers into a pool of red ooze and then traced a cross on my forehead before breaking into a sprint toward my parents' house.

I think I left myself in that tree house. This was now Me [Version 2.0].

Redenbacher Blues

2009-04-07T22:29:00.001-06:00

As a man who grew up in another world, a world where the dead stayed dead and where women and children didn't run through the countryside pursued by ravenous fetid corpses, I have had occasion to wonder what kind of a man I was. Certain other generations were not so much plagued by this question. They were plagued instead with war and famine and challenges of the mind, body, and spirit which I haven't known, and while I am dutifully grateful for the luxuries of being a product of the late twentieth century, I was never able to shake the nagging doubt. I heard stories, read novels, watched movies, all crowded with heroism and altruism, and I wondered, "What kind of man am I?" Would I stand tall in the face of danger, sacrifice myself; would I risk everything for a loved one? A stranger?

I was beginning to find the answers to my question.

When Colleen hit the grain, she and Finn sank with astonishing speed. The grain seemed to open for them, enfold them in countless tiny arms and simply pulled them in.

Another shot, this one so close to my left hand I felt the concrete shatter into stone shrapnel, slicing the top of my hand wide open and spraying my face and neck with tiny stone fragments. The blood from my flayed hand rained down onto the heads of the undead below. Horrifyingly, they opened their mouths and held out ruined blackened tongues to catch the droplets, like some nightmarish child hoping for a snowflake on a winter morning. A third shot, this one just closer still and a little higher up. I managed to avoid further damage, but whoever was shooting at me was clearly zeroing in and fast. Two shots in the seven or so seconds since Colleen and Finn sank below the grain. I leapt over the edge and heard a third shot crash into the concrete just before I hit the grain.

It was corn, popping corn to be exact. Round and hard and nearly uniform, they provided almost no surface tension and opened to accept me as readily as they had swallowed my family moments before.

What surprised me most was the sound, or rather the lack of it. The initial rustle of the myriad corn kernels brushing a slipping past one another was quickly repalced by a near total silence. And the darkness. God, back into the darkness. I felt my mind consulse and shiver at the thought of it. Even now I cannot sleep with the lights off.

Before hitting the grain I had taken a deep breath and I tried the only thing I could think to do. I pushed my arms in front of me and pulled, trying to swim through the slippery beads of corn. Almost immediately I found what I was looking for. I grabbed blindly at the flesh I felt at my fingertips, felt my hands close on arm, gripped and pulled.

There was no movement. Again I pulled, and again nothing. There was nothing for me to leveage the additional weight against. Flailing, desperate, I began in that dark silence to panic. Past the point of reason, I pulled with all of the strength I could still muster and jerked and twisted my body, letting the fear and panic control me. Had I been thinking clearly, I surely would have perished.

In my ridiculous desperate wiggling, my damaged hand struck something solid, sending a lightning bolt of pain shooting down my arm and jolting my oxygen starving brain to awareness. Grasping, I found a metal rod embedded in the wasll of that dark and terrible place and I pulled. I pulled until I felt my arms creaking, pulled until the tendons in my shoulders and back and neck threatened to tear, pulled harder, pulled until I could feel my body threatening to rip itself in half with the effort. I pulled again and again, felt something in my chest tighten suddenly, then give and tear, and I still I pulled. It was no longer black in that space, but a kaleidascope of color, fireworks bursting in my vision as the vessels of my eyes swelled and burst with the effort. Then we were moving, rising and the tension was a little less and just a little less and in a moment my face cleared the surface of the corn. I opened my mouth and eyes, sucked in great burning lungfuls of breath and with a final heave that threatened to pull something deep and permanent loose from its internal mooring I pulled my wife's face from below that hateful crop and into the light of day.

Reaching below, I fished blindly for Finn, found a small, fragile arm and yanked him free, setting him across the surface, glanced briefly at his fitfully rising chest, and passed out.

As for what kind of a man I am, I'm not sure I want to know anymore.

Poor, but not in Spirit.

2009-02-06T09:23:00.000-06:00

The cop was right about something’s, wrong about others. The ATV is both good and bad. While it is an “off-road” vehicle, and its speed is fairly good, it was really made to ride on downtown paved streets. The wheels are flat and wide, unlike the normal oversized knobby gripped tires that these vehicles normal sport. This means that getting up on the tracks is tough, and the ride is very bumpy. The suspension was made for speed and maneuverability on pavement, not on unstable ground. I decide that riding on the tracks isn’t my best course of action and ride in between them, on the rock bed that separates the two tracks. The going is slow, but not as dangerous as walking. I see a few creatures here and there, but there are no masses of them until I get to the projects.

The train tracks ride right along some of the poorest neighborhoods in Chicago. Large apartments for low income families sprout on one side of the tracks. The bodies of hundreds of undead clamor at the sides of the building and on the windows. Suddenly the risk of being in a poor neighborhood is a benefit. All the windows that line the ground floor for each of these buildings is covered by thick wire or bars, and all the doors are covered with bars as well. These places were made so humans couldn’t get into them, and the zombies are stopped cold.

On the porches, hundreds of people sit. It is still before noon and the temperature is still rising, it may reach 100 degrees today. With no hope of circulation these people go to the only place that is relatively cool, outside. They look down lazily at the creatures and out at me, seemingly unphased but the horrendousness of it all. I can’t tell what they are thinking exactly. They could be resigned to the fact of death. Having lived in a dangerous neighborhood for so long they might not even be affected by the fact that their apartment is surrounded by creatures that want to kill them; this isn’t much of a change from before there were zombies. In a way they were separated from the world before, segregated to a small community of like incomes and colors, how is this different?

But my cynical side isn’t firing this thought process up. Instead my optimistic side takes hold. Hardship isn’t new to these people. Lean times and mortal danger was already a daily occurrence. This new threat is just another in a long line of threats that they will overcome.

When some of them notice me they hoot and holler. They yell and wave, some of them laugh, others cry out for some help. I cannot do anything really, but ride by and give them something to mark the day as different from the others. I am going slow when I hear gunfire. I am not sure if it is a gun aimed at me or not, so I hit the throttle, leaving the poor to fight their own fight. If I had to pick a side, I’d say the tenacity of these people will win out.

A little after noon, I get to a point in the train tracks that is going to be a challenge. There is a trestle just outside of a town called Blue Island that crosses a shipping canal. I maneuver the ATV onto the tracks and start to ride over, there are no rocks and the wheels are smallish, so the ATV is bouncing as the wheels fall between the supports of the railroad ties. It is too hard to drive and I am afraid that I will be thrown off into the water below. I get out and try to pull it. It is slow going across the bridge, each tie takes a few seconds, and a lot of effort.

It isn’t until I get to near the middle when I see them. Some creatures are coming down the tracks from toward Blue Island. I start o furiously pull the ATV when I spin around and see a couple of others ambling toward me from the other way. There are about twenty of them, slowly plodding their way toward me, and I know there is nothing I can do. The way on foot will be too difficult, this machine is really my only chance of survival, but there are too many creatures, and the footing on this bridge is too poor. All the options that I have are quickly running out. The highest probability for survival is the only choice I really take seriously. I jump.

The sound of Silo

2008-11-17T16:14:00.004-06:00

At the top of the silo, after hours of running, I leaned over the wall, and peered into a massive pile of grain. Wheat likely, but it was at least 20 feet below.

The undead scratched, grunted, clawed and moaned from below. They weren't getting up, and I sure as hell wasn't getting down. So our choices were grain, suicide, or stand as long as possible on the tiny iron rungs we had been climbing to get to the top.

Tom was talking, but all I could hear were words. I don't know how long since we'd eaten. It had been at least a week since we had any protein. I was hungry, I was thirsty, and I was afraid for Finn. He was sleeping too long now. I never put him down to develop his own mobility skills unless we were sleeping, and my breasts grew more dry with each day. He had eaten all my body had to give him, and I had nothing to nourish myself and make anymore milk. I feared he was starving.

My ears were ringing, my feet and hands bleeding and throbbing, and my vision was swimming. I clung to the wall. Tom stood next to me, still talking, and I still lacked the ability to focus. I just needed to rest.

To dive into the grain was uncertain.... can you drown in grain? It's not solid, so how deep in it would we go, and would be able to swim out? What about my poor, beautiful Finn? And once inside, do we just die? There is no one to come for us, and nowhere else to go.

I can't hold on forever. I can't hold on for an hour. I need to rest. Finn needs food, and things look grim.

Then I heard the boom and whiz of... well.... was it a bullet? Were we being shot at? Fed to the Zombies? I look to the farm house, and see movement behind the partially closed shutters.

People! OH GOD, PEOPLE!

Hillbillies, perhaps, and maybe no better than hippies, but they have a fortified home, and perhaps food and water. It is unclear as to whether we were being shot down, or the zombies were being shot at, but with nothing to lose, I untied Finn from my back and held him toward the house.

I shook him in the air and screamed, 'HELP MY BABY! PLEASE HELP MY BABY! We're thirsty, and we're tired, but PLEASE help my BOY!'.

Tom was yelling as well, but not at them. He was telling me to hide Finn, to protect him. 'He thinks they're shooting at us...' I thought. And I wonder, what difference does it make? Finn is nearly dead, and I can't save him from up here. We don't have long, either. Maybe a gunshot is better than being torn asunder by eternally starving teeth and rotting flesh.

Tom reaches past me to get Finn, and in our struggle, I tumble backwards.... into the silo, still holding an unconscious Finn by his arm... and I feel the wheat move past my body, and Tom's muffled cries from above.

Spearfishing

2008-11-10T13:13:00.003-06:00

I awake shivering. It can’t be but maybe 5:00am and the moans from below my treehouse pyre softly rumble into a background noise. There are other noises; the first twitterings of Mourning Doves and an owl hooting in a distant tree.

The throb in my punctured arm is nothing compared to the throb in my head – a dehydration headache perhaps. Or maybe from lack of daily caffeine. I carefully and slowly roll over and look through the cracks in the rotten wood at the nemeses below. The Damned. Nothing changed overnight; still two rotting children, two rotting men – circling the tree, moaning. I need to get out.

My chest tightens signaling a long overdue panic attack. I slowly sit up causing the wood underneath me to groan. My breathing gets quicker and my chest hurts. I close my eyes and try and meditate on The Five Precious Wounds. A little residual Catechesis. It takes me about twenty minutes to calm myself and breathe regularly and by that time the morning light is creeping in to brighten the sky. I put dawn at about 5:50am. I look around to see if there is anything I can use to help myself out of here. Nothing. No hidden Indiana Jones rope tucked away in the corner, no matches, no gun, no miracle, nothing.

My parents’ house is about a football field’s length away. If I start screaming when I think they’ll be awake, I might have a chance to get out my S.O.S. Maybe someone will come running in on a steed of metal to save me.

At about 7:00am when I think my family would be awake I clear my throat and start my screaming:

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPP! I’M IN THE TREEEEEE! HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPPPP! I’M IN THE TREEEEEE!

I space out my screams so it sounds intentional and not like I am actually being killed. I do this for about an hour and forty-five minutes straight and with every moment of silence that follows I lose more and more hope. My dry throat burns and my vocal cords, strained and abused, refuse me any further service. A raspy cigaretty sexy voice of desperation. I give in to a good five minute crying session. In my fit, my hand claws at the end of a rotten wood floor plank and unconsciously pulls… the edge tears off in a long splintered piece. I hold it up in front of my dirty tear-streaked face and touch the surprisingly dense yet splintery sharp tip. Oak was always reliable, even when dead. Maybe it would work. It could penetrate skull, maybe. I didn’t have a choice now. Do or die. Or both. I hope the internal rot of these freaks has mushened their bones.

Like a madwoman I start ripping at the edge of the rotten floorboards, yanking up yard-stick long pieces to use as weapons, embedding many nasty splinters into my own skin. When I had about six good sized pieces I took my shirt off and wrapped it around the bunch and tied it to my back like a rigged bundle. A she-MacGuyver in a white Wal-Mart bra. The hard part would be gingerly climbing down the makeshift and crumbling ladder to get just within reach to plant the spear-sticks into their rotting heads. To do this without putting myself in jeopardy would be a trick.

My hands were moist with sweat and shaking I lower myself to the first step. Moaning continues below and gradually loudens when the beasts realize I am coming down the ladder. Another step. This one feels a bit more shaky. I pray the nails don’t give up their duties. One more, honey, come on. My chest and stomach scrape desperately against the bark of the oak, sending small dead pieces of wood shrapnel and dust raining down. My hands are not doing me any favors by sweating so profusely. My fear of heights does not help. Then I get to the magic step. It seems firm enough. I trust this piece of wood and it could be my doom, but I balance both feet as I twist my body sideways. My feet are just out of clawing reach and I cling to the trunk with all my shaking might. I reach back into my makeshift shirt-bundle and – OUCH! I stick myself with an end of a spear. Stupid! Ignoring the pain, I manage to grope and grab the first oak spear, balancing and clinging to the tree with one hand like a spider monkey. A scared one. I hover and wait with my spear upraised for the best opportunity to nail the first one through the top of the skull…

Segway

2008-10-30T09:51:00.002-06:00

“Which side?” I say to Rick, the police officer of the now defunct Chicago PD. We walk across the top of the roof of the building, dried tar and gravel crunching as we head to the edge.

“West, by the red line,” he says. He is letting me know where is abandoned vehicle is. Everyone in the building is sure I am insane, leaving the security for the unknown. Their leader, Mike, made a less than convincing plea for me to stay. He asked why I wanted to leave, and the first thing I said was that I needed to make sure my wife was ok. His response was coarse but possibly true, “Look man, she is probably already dead.”

“Let me tell you about my wife,” I say sharply, “If our roles were reversed and she was down here – she’d be fucking home by now.”

Our conversation is thankfully short and his protests are quick. He can tell I won’t change my mind, and the psychological drain I could inflict on the group could be too great for moral so he acquiesces.

Rick and I peer over the edge of the building and look at the street. From 20 floors up they look like figurines below, placed her by some malevolent child in a sick game. The creatures march no where, all of them circling but at different arcs. It looks like grind of sharks, all clambering on top of one another to get a taste of the latest catch, but in this case there is nothing to grab. They all cycle in toward the buildings, only to be pushed away by the others behind in a never ending cycle.

Rick points, “you see it out over by the corner?”

“That’s a fucking segway.” I say to him, amusement drained from my voice.

He laughs, “man I’m just fucking with you. It’s over there, behind that truck that's embedded in Walgreen’s."

“That’s a quad…”

This time he doesn’t laugh. “Seriously… That’s what you have?" I say, "A 4 wheeler? You realize it has neither roof nor doors.”

“Look. That’s what I got. I know that it isn’t a full car, but it might be better in some respects. If you come to a clog in the road or something, you can always go around.” I start to protest and he holds up his hand, indicating he isn’t done. “It doesn’t use much gas, and that is a police model, it goes about 65 if you need it to.”

I shake my head, “I guess I have no choice.”

“You could always just stay here.”

“Gimme the keys”

-------

The goodbye isn’t long. I gather what I can carry, take both my makeshift machete and a small crowbar they happily give me. Rick is the one who comes to say goodbye last.

“You should take this.” He says pulling his revolver out of the holster.

“No, I can’t…” I start.

“Look, I won’t need this here. We can handle all this with the makeshift weapons. Besides, I only have 12 rounds. It can get you out of a jam if you need to, but this isn’t anything I can use. And..." He pauses, "if you feel the change coming on, at least you can end your misery…” The last statement hangs in the air as I quietly take the gun.

We find a spot closest to my destination, that is surrounded by the least ghouls. The guys pike them as I climb down the ladder and I quickly jog through the street. The ghouls are packed into places, and in other parts of the street there are none. The ones nearby start moving toward me, but I am able to maneuver around them and I don’t have to engage. I arrive at the ATV with some space to spare. They are closing in, but not so fast that I don’t have time to get the key in the ignition. It starts immediately and I put it in gear and drive. I move past the major center of creatures quickly. Keep distance from the packs as I zig zag over streets and sidewalks.

I know which way I should go and I head that direction. The train tracks lead to near my home. I can follow them and hopefully avoid crowds of creatures. And with this vehicle it might not be that bad of a ride.

I make my way past the buildings and veer off into the grass. The buildings end and the train yard begins. I drive through the surrounding deserted prairie, and head to the tracks. My car awaits at the station, miles from here. My goal is to make it there by nightfall.

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still

2008-10-13T17:15:00.003-06:00

When you have nowhere to go, it takes a hell of a long time to get there. I realized this as I ran, my exhausted lungs ripping oxygen from the air around me and converting it into carbon dioxide, exhaled in ragged but rhythmic bursts. I ran and breathed and dragged my family behind me cruelly, heedless of their cries.

I was callousness embodied. I had to be. I had through my inaction sentenced two boys to die, and so mercy became a liability I could ill afford. The game was changing now. I could feel it in the air that burned in my lungs like the fires of hell that would greet me for what I had become and I didn't care. Colleen couldn't keep up and I couldn't ask her too. She began to cry as I dug my fingers deep into her arm and forced her along, her feet bouncing and jumping against the ground more than actually running. Her cries meant nothing to me.

Having moments ago been reborn into this protective running machine by Finn's cries, the irony of my dispassion was not lost on me, nor did it change anything. Let them cry. Let them scream if it came to that, but even as the lactic acid began to set tiny fires across the internal landscape of my person, I didn't slow. My body had changed since this began. It was leaner now, made of the kind of grit and gristle that has woven together the bodies of working men throughout all time. More than that, my mind had changed, grown harder. There was no more room in it for contemplation of ideals and ideas. It didn't matter that I couldn't run anymore, that I was exhausted, that my family couldn't keep up. That was all hypothetical. That was the world as it should be; the world as a place of sanity and reason. That was no longer my world and so we ran and if anything my pace picked up. I accelerated my stride and although my ravaged unnourished sleep deprived body should have broken down, though I should have collapsed upon the floor of the earth in a heaving desperate pile, I ran. I ran to try and match the hellish determination of those who pursued me and the singularity of my focus consumed me.

Colleen had stopped crying now. I doubted she could spare the breath. Finn took up her slack, ratcheting up his protests. How hungry he must have been, how tired. This new world ill suited to the needs of a child. But if I survived so would he, and so would Colleen. I would leave a thousand boys behind to die screaming if only to ward off the demise of my family for a moment. I realized this and ran faster still, trying to outrun any need for redemption, to outpace the realization of my biological selfishness. It followed me like a shadow. I was an atheist in search of a respite from hell.

I would not find it. I found instead a farmhouse and its outbuildings just over a small hill up ahead. My pursuers were still coming, but I had lengthened our lead, given us a few precious moments to slow as I surveyed the area. The house appeared to be old, but sturdy and in good repair. It seemed the obvious choice until I saw the sun glint from a window and I shook at my near miss. It wouldn't take five minutes for the glass to break, social contracts shattered by undead heads and hands, snapping teeth and desperate hunger. We would have been consumed withing an hour had I not corrected my intial judgment, murdered by my poor decision as much by my poor decision as by the hands of the undead. I changed course in mid stride, almost sending Colleen to the ground, but yanking up on her arm to keep her up. I charged forward toward the massive concrete dominance of a grain silo. Gratified that there were no doors, I skid to a halt at the face of the thing.
Rebar rings circled the structure every three feet or so, creating a widely spaced but not impossible ladder. I had no idea what we would find inside had no idea if the silo would be empty or full or if there was a way to climb back down on the interior wall of the thing. It didn't matter. The house was certain death; the dilapidated barn no better. I looked at Colleen who appeared ready to pass out, then back at our pursuers. A hundred yards behind us the first of the undead was, of course, still running (when did they learn to run like that?) after us, only slightly hindered by a horribly mauled leg that looked as if it might bend entirely in the wrong direction with each ungraceful but effective lurch. I took Finn from Colleen's arms and began to climb. I motioned for her to follow.

Thankfully, it was not just my own body that had hardened during our ordeal, but Colleen's as well. She climbed grimly, but with competence. We made it six rings up, about a third of the way toward the zenith of the six story monolith when the first of the running undead hit the concrete wall at full speed. The sound of bone and flesh impacting the immovable concrete wall was gruesome, but the impact was of no consequence. The thing clambered to its feet as quickly as it was down, moaning through its ruined skull as it reached vainly into the air for the meal it had gamely chased. For the moment at least, it didn't seem able to climb, and without another glance back, Colleen and I struggled upward.

It was, I reflected later, a day for irony. Taking shelter in a grain silo was very nearly like storing ourselves in the refrigerator. Man had poured grain into silos for hundreds of years to store food for later consumption. Now it was we who were the food, climbing desperately into the larder.

Chicago, Where the Weak are Killed and Eaten

2008-08-27T07:43:00.001-06:00

The pikes did what they needed them to do. With trial and error we were able to build the scaffold around the bottles of water, seal it off with concrete form boards and kill everything inside in less than two days. With the new strategy, the guys had planned to build the scaffold across the street and possibly take a few buildings back in the vicinity. The claiming of new buildings meant more resources, a bigger spot on multiple roofs for rain collection, and more survivors. Everyone was in favor of it.

I hadn’t slept in a long time. Really slept anyway… Lying still and jumping awake at any creak, moan or whateverthefuck wasn’t really sleeping, that was closing your eyes long enough so you don’t hallucinate. So when I made it across the street, I fell out. There were plenty of people watching as others slept to warn them if anything happened to the defenses, so when I finally did hit the pillow I was out.

I sat awake when I heard the rhythmic thumping. Zombies have no rhythm, their pounding is pure chaos, but this had some organization. When I looked around I saw no one inside, so I trotted out to the scaffold. The thumping was accompanied by a distant voice, it was a helicopter, announcing something.

All the people in the building looked up, and saw the thing hovering in the distance. There were a few murmurs at first, and then when we could tell someone was broadcasting their voice, everyone quieted down. It was hard to hear at first, but eventually we were able to make it out.

“We are moving toward Chicago. Please stay inside. We will be making a sweep of the city in a few days. Please, stay inside until we come into your building. We need your full cooperation. Just hold out for a few more days.”

The voice was shaky and unsure. Weeks ago I would have felt sorry for the person behind it. Now I could feel the anger welling up inside me.

“When we move through the blocks and liberate buildings, we need you to kneel and put your hands on your head to show that you aren’t infected. Anyone who disobeys will be shot.”

How fucking dare you send some snot nosed little kid to talk to us over the broadcast, I thought. His voice gave everything away. He was either scared or poorly trying to deceive. Fucking cock suckers, I thought, getting angrier by the second. I hope his fucking helicopter explodes… no, I quickly changed my mind. I wanted it to crash land with him trapped and on fire, then I wanted him to finish dying by getting eaten alive by these goddamn abominations crawling the streets.

“Please stay inside!” his voice was a shriek now, a begging, pleading weak little shriek. It got higher and higher as it went down the block, and more insecure with each passing moment. It hit a crescendo when a group down the street that didn’t care what the guy was saying ran out onto ground level, disregarding the fact that the street was filled with undead. The ran out, illuminated by the high powered light of the helicopter, waving at the sky like a pack of starving retards trapped on an island.

“No! Stay inside! We can’t pick you up! Go! No! No!” He squealed pathetically as the group was torn apart. The mic went silent quickly thereafter as the helicopter rose in altitude and flew off faster.

I leave tomorrow, I thought. I am not sitting here waiting to see if they are telling the truth. Even if they are, they aren’t going to let me hop a ride out to my house to get my wife. No, there is no choice now. I have to leave.

Lunatic Fringe

2008-07-24T13:45:00.003-06:00

The throb in my arm awakens me. It is twilight. I open my eyes and see the sparkling diamond of Venus rising. A slowly moving satellite crosses the sky where the dark blue meets black, far away from this inexplicable chaos. I’m used to seeing airplane contrails scar the sky above this area all the time. Now there are none.

The soft groans of the determined undead drift up to meet my ears as I carefully shift my weight on the rotten boards of the tree house floor. The air is noticeably cooler and a soft summer breeze spitefully rustles my hair.

I peer down between cracks in the tree house floor and see that we have a visitor. Another undead neighbor - looks like Rich Aldanus - round bare gut hanging over his Chicago Bears lounge pants, socklessly shuffles in to join the party, arms raised, clawing ridiculously at the bark of the tree like the others, moaning for blood. Maybe he’s a fresh kill.

I recall hearing a radio program on the topic of stress. The science was that the body’s secondary functions such as growth and reproductive processes halt during extreme times of stress. I thought about how I wouldn’t even need to be on the pill right now to stay unpregnant. After this I realize how much I am missing Cecil. And I begin to weep bitterly, my tears landing on the splintered gray floorboards. I could use his military directions right now. When I had got drunk and puked in the car after my company Christmas party two years ago he held me up, got me in the house, got me undressed and cleaned up, and sternly commanded me to stop crying and keep my head over the toilet bowl. I feel like my head is over a toilet bowl right now. And all this shit is swirling below me, groaning to reclaim my body somehow. I hope Cecil is holding his own against these fuckers wherever he is right now.

The raccoon punctures in my arm stopped bleeding but are looking swollen. I’m sure an infection is well on its way. Great, just what I need.

More stars appear in what’s quickly becoming the night sky. As the colors fade I think of the song Lunatic Fringe by Red Rider how the beginning is echoey and perfect for this picture. I cradle my injury and curl up in a fetal position.

I have to get out of here tomorrow. Come hell or high water.

Not so Precious Moments

2008-07-15T18:21:00.000-06:00

There are the stories we tell over a nice meal, stories that bind a diverse people together through the wonder of shared experience. They may be happy stories or sad or funny, but they are told willingly enough, and without anger or resentment. But there are other stories, terrible mournful stories. Stories told in whispers, reluctantly, each word pulled from us like bloody fish hooks, writhing and thrashing to stay buried deep in the hard, desperate parts of us, these are the stories that wound grievously with each telling. This is one of those stories.

We had just come to the light. Can you imagine what the meant to us? Can you? Just to have the light again, to be out of that infernal dark, it was like learning to breathe again just to see. And it wasn't just light, but sunlight, beautiful and bright and hopeful and it was there for the taking. It felt like I was consuming it, that I would devour the suns rays with my voracity. Can you think for one moment what that would have been like?

I didn't even think about it. I'd like to be able to say that I saw those kids down there and decided to do what was right, but it wasn't like that. I just started moving. What else was there to do? Jesus, they were just teenagers. They should have been throwing rocks and getting stoned and finding some girl to let them feel her boobs, but instead there they were, sitting in that goddamn boat as it floated lazily toward the shore. And of course there were dead on the shore, plenty of them. And so what the fuck could I have done? It wasn't the right thing, hell; it was the only thing. So we sat, all of us, in that damn tree and there I was, whittling little spears, a regular Don Quixote, readying the lance to go tilting at undead windmills. I thought I had to

By the time I realized what was happening, it was far too late. You have to know that at least. When we crawled out onto the tree from drainage culvert, I never looked at the tree. I was blinded by the light, revved up like a deuce, you know what I mean? I didn't see a tree, I saw freedom, I saw salvation from the hell of that concrete tunnel and the dark. I saw spears to fight the zombies and maybe save the kids in that stupid little boat. What I didn't see was that the tree was dead. Mostly at least. It was leaning against the culvert because it had been struck by lightning. Some of the branches were still green but it was a goner. The trunk was split wide open at the base and it was at a crazy angle to the ground. Hell, thinking back it's likely the only thing holding that damn tree vertical was its leaning against the very culvert we climbed out of. So when it began to fall, slowly at first, I had no idea what was going on. It was like tipping over backward from the top of a ladder, sickening and inevitable, and just slow enough so that you know you're really fucked. It was a big tree. We were very high up.

I remember the landing real well. I was lucky (that's all it was too, don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise) to be on the far side of the initial impact. Couple of them cellar dweller hippie body clone chicks hit the ground first, and the rest of the tree just fell right into them. Weird thing was, no one said anything. Not a word, not an "Oh Shit" or "Fuck." Nothing. We fell silently. It had become our habit in the dark. But our silence didn't mean shit to Zed. They saw and heard that tree falling and they came in as big a rush as I ever seen them. Up until now, we'd only seen the slow ones. These were fast. They were on us before we even knew we'd survived the fall. One poor fucker just laid there, trying to push himself out of from under the tangle of branches that had him pinned even as they descended upon him. It was pointless. I could see even as I scrambled that his legs were shot, but he fought like hell until one of them mercifully bit him in the throat. Finn's screams probably saved my life. Until that moment, I was dumbfounded, pulling myself out of the branches and wondering how the hell we were all going to get out of this one when I heard his panicked cries. I snapped to and looked to find Colleen clutching Finn, looking wild and trying to restrain him with one hand while trying to scramble out of the tangled mess herself. I couldn't believe that she'd managed to hold onto him through the impact with the ground, but there they were, alive. And I guess that's when it happened.

I looked at them, my tired, half crazed wife, my screaming son, and I didn't care anymore about the boys in the boat. They were dead already, they just didn't know it. I think I had wanted to stay and fight before, to make a stand. I was ready at a moment's notice to make every place my feet held soil the goddamn Alamo. Until I heard Finn screaming. I looked back over my shoulder. A couple of the hippy-types had lived through the fall and were extricating themselves from the branches. One was brandishing a flimsy stick as the undead rushed him, tearing it from his hands and tackling him with the weight of the ceaseless hunger. And so we ran.

I grabbed Colleen's arm harder than I would ever have dared before and took off. I didn't care if she couldn't keep up or if I was hurting her. I needed to run, to put distance between my family and that madness. I left those boys on the water and our traveling companions to die. Part of me has been running ever since.

Culvert-land

2008-06-19T12:54:00.001-06:00

It has been dark for so long, and we're all mad for the light. How long has it been? A day, a week, a moment.... we're all lost for time at this point, and the darkness has made us hungry like I've never known. Though not for food.

When we catch the first glimmer of sunlight, there is silence, as if no one dare breathe, for fear it will melt away. Like desert travelers in search of water, we are at the end of our tunnels, and our ropes, and fearfully, madly dashing toward the light, which dances with the shadows of leaves and branches, and rustles in a most beautiful, echo-less sound.

Tom is in front, he has lead us here. With few words, and little confidence, he has somehow reassured us that this is the way out. He seems, however, to be showing signs of wear. The wear and the madness of the dark, that we have all felt in the pits of our bellies seems to be growing, expanding, and we're all at the edge of madness as we desperately clamor, stumble, and race toward the edge of the tunnel, and the light outside.

In a moment, I am cast aside with the madness for the light, and I clutch Finn to me, who has been quiet for far too long, and fall hard on my hip. I cry out for Tom, terrified I will be left behind here, in the darkness, forever. The hippies were always a little cracked, but their desperation for the light seems more than ours.. and I wonder if they have EVER seen the light of day. They have lived underground their whole lives... what this must look like to them...

Tom comes back for me, as I am getting up, hip sore and likely to bruise, and he helps me stumble forward toward the end of the tunnel, and the world outside. He makes no sound, and the tension of leading us through these tunnels has left him frayed and tired. It's hard to say at first how far we have to go. The light seems a mirage, that fools us with it's rays, and dancing shadows. It could be 10 feet, or it could be 100. But we trudge on, quickly, and urgently desperate to get out of here.

After a time that feels like hours but it likely moments, I hear the moaning... Tom must too, as he stops dead. Where is it coming from? We look ahead and see that the hippies have reached the edge, and now fearfully grasp the edge of the culvert, looking back at us in overt terror.

As we get closer it is easy to see that we are not at ground level. And the moaning is still audible. Tom has his knife pulled, and is ready to fight, but steps away from the edge, baffled. As I lean over to look down I can see that we are 30 feet off the ground, in a large drain culvert, looking down on a man made lake at some teen boys in a boat who look to be quickly overtaken by 4 or 5 of the undead. Once they are in the water, they will be difficult to fight, as they don't need air like we do. But if the lake is man-made, we can hope it is deep, and that the zeds have forgotten how to swim. The boys look terrified.

For a moment I am sad that these strong young men, who could be so useful to us in surviving, are at their ends. Tom must be thinking the same thing, and he climbs out onto a large tree branch near the culvert, and then summons for us to join him. The hippies are terrified, but he motions for silence, so that we can only trust his guidance, and so as he asks. He has led us this far in safety, and slowly, Sage, Juniper, Corinader, and Hawthorne climb into the tree, and begin down the trunk. Tom begins to whittle makeshift weapons with his knife out of the longer, thinner branches, and it is clear he means for us to fight.

I clutch Finn to my chest, who is now cooing happily in the sun, and hope that for his sake, this is an easy battle. I don't know how much more bloodshed I can bear, but my god, does that sun feel good on my skin.

It seems to warm me from the depths of my soul, and after a few moments, I am renewed, and ready to do what is right.

Brutes and Ladders

2008-05-19T07:57:00.002-06:00

The threat of injury means nothing to the undead. If I were surrounded by normal people a feint with my paper-cutter/machete would make them back away or flinch. These creatures pour on, climbing over one another in the vein hope of a meal only to be struck and killed. They have no regard for one another and treat each other as inanimate objects. If one is to slow the others surge past, when one falls the others stomp right over the top of the fallen. They make little sound. They occasionally let out a moan, or rub up against one another. The damp cloth scrapes together as does their flesh so they sound like a box of worms.

I back up away from the fallen cart. I am surprisingly calm, my brain picks out target areas on the creatures. The only parts I can hit are the head and the base of the neck, the knee and the wrist. I try to make sure everything is a headshot, but have to resort to a few knees, when the creatures fall, several others topple over them and I gather some much needed breathing room. I keep walking backward as I lead the conga line of undead in a circle, slowly backing away while I check behind me, and clubbing anything that cones near. I fight for possibly a minute to a minute and a half when I hear a loud crash.

I look over to the scaffold and see the men have lowered a large aluminum ladder. They scream for me to make my way to it. It’s not very difficult right now to do so; I cut a few down on the legs and sprint. The moment I touch it one of them screams, “Don’t climb it, just hold on!” As I grasp it the creatures are ten feet away. The urge to climb is great, but I see that four large men are pulling up the ladder and I rung by rung. This quickly makes sense, I might be shaken from the ladder or it may fall if I was left to climb it, they just took us both out of the street at the same time.

They pull me over the side and I am out of breath, the wound on my side has opened up again and it is bleeding through the shirt. “Wish I could offer you some water,” Mike says smiling. I start to get up and he tells me to rest, that the scaffolding is perfectly safe and that they are getting the first aid box to look at my side. I start to protest, I say it is fine, but he assures me that we should look at it.

The guy who comes down says that he is a paramedic, someone who came here looking for solace in the first few hours of the crisis. I tell him not to worry, I didn’t get bit, and he shrugs, “it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’d be infected if you had been bit.” He uses a pretty comprehensive medical kit to bandage my side. They help me stand and we look over the edge of the scaffold and see the creatures reaching up, all of them still with an undying relentlessness to capture a meal.

I ask the paramedic what he means; everyone I’ve watched get bit has turned pretty quickly. Mike is standing nearby and responds, “We had 4 people come in on the second day of the whole mess. They came running by and asked to be let up. It was a police officer and three civilians. He had brought them up from the subway, where they had been chased out of. They all got attacked in the stairwell to the subway and every one of them was bitten at least once. We told them that we would let them stay but they had to be quarantined until we made sure they would be fine. They all agreed. We locked them in a room with a couple of hammers and left that floor for four days. When we came back down and Rick the police officer was the only one left alive. The others all had obviously turned and then quickly dispatched. Our medic here checked him over and found four bites that punctured the skin, all of them infected, but he was fine.”

“I’d like to think I’m still fine. I got a little sick, but never changed into anything like that.” One of the men who helped pull me up says as he points out to the street.

“That turns everything around for me. I had thought it was highly contagious,” I respond.

“We aren’t quite sure why he hasn’t been affected,” the medic replies, “There are a lot of possibilities, and this isn’t my area of expertise. He could be immune, he could have been bitten by someone who has had the virus mutate inside of them, or there may be a period of time in which the virus is contagious in a victim, and he got lucky enough to get bit an infected victim that was no longer contagious.”

“Well getting that water aught to be pretty easy then…” I say with a smile.

“Yeah. Fuck that” Rick chuckles.

“I have a plan for that,” Mike cuts in,” we just need to keep these creatures away long enough and we can build the scaffold out over the water, then we can use plywood to cordon off that area, pull up the floor here and gather the water. We just need a way to get them off the water.”

“Well if you build it up around some of them, the ones that are left inside should be easy pickings.” I say.

“How! You going to climb down into a tiny area and whack them to death with your makeshift sword?”

“Fuck that,” I say looking at Rick. “All we need to do is get something to stab them from up here; can we sharpen any metal poles? We can make pikes and just kill them easily from up here.”

Another member of Mike’s crew pipes in, “Hey foreman, we got that 12 foot rebar upstairs, I can possibly sharpen up that and that should be long enough to hit from up here.”

“Good idea, get Dave and Joey and get to work on that.” Mike says snapping into foreman mode, “Let’s get Robby, Tony, Mac and T.J. down here right away to help me set up the scaffold. If we hurry we can get that water up here by nightfall.”

Toll the Bell

2008-05-08T10:46:00.003-06:00

A column of thick smoke still poured upward from the mound of hot coals and charred flesh. A strange mixture of scents carried into the woods as twelve dark figures stepped away from the fire pit like hour hands extending from the center of a smoldering clock. At the six o'clock position, walked Maureen Newman. When she could no longer hear the cracks of twigs underneath the feet of her comrades, she took a knee upon the ground and dropped the backpack from her shoulder. She loosed her heavy velvet cloak and rolled it up tightly. It was quickly swapped for the lightweight jacket in her pack. She thrust her arms through the worn sleeves and pulled the zipper up tight to her neck. With her pack secured on her back again, she sighed heavily and began the long trek to her car.

The Adirondack Park was beautiful during the summer. The temperatures rarely made it far from 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the daytime in July, but dropped sharply as the sun began to set. The near total shade created by the expanse of ancient foliage over Maureen's head made the twilight hour even cooler, and she pressed her hands into the jacket's pockets to tighten it around her. Gusts of wind would blow through and rattle the full leaves on the trees. These calming pulses of white noise fell upon the ears of a woman too self absorbed to appreciate their splendor.

Even though the meeting place was three quarters of a mile south of Turtle Lake, she had to walk in a large arc to the west in order to avoid the homes scattered along the lake front. At first, this walk had been completed with a sense of purpose and enthusiasm. Recently, the journey became more arduous with each undertaking. Today, it served as an opportunity for quiet contemplation. It had been six years. Six years since Maureen had lost her faith in the world and joined this doomsday cult.

You wouldn't think her a cultist if you saw her. She didn't look anything but average in every sense. No tattoos, wild hair or abnormal piercings set her apart. Her figure was lean from hours spent hiking in these woods but wouldn't look remarkable in a bathing suit if she ever made it to a beach. It was only her thoughts which deviated from the norm. She often wondered, if she had friends, how would she explain her affiliation with this group? What would they say? Unfortunately for her, she didn't have to worry about these difficult issues. She only had to have these serious conversations with herself, and she crafted the tough questions. Maureen struggled with one of these questions as she stomped heavily through the brush. If you join a cult because you lost your faith in humanity, what does it mean when you lose faith in that cult?

Her life had been naught but a string of failures. Maureen had failed to be anything remarka
ble physically or mentally. She failed to integrate herself socially after the age of twelve. Her parents failed to live long enough to guide her into adulthood. She failed to establish herself in a career that was even semi-lucrative. Hell, she even failed to sort out her own sexual orientation, which ensured that the few relationships she managed to start ended abruptly. This was probably a good thing, given the quality of the people she chose to involve herself with. She was twenty-eight, lonely, and couldn't find anything good about the world of man. Nature was a different story. There were so many things she found beautiful about the world. It was grand and majestic and nearly infinite.

Maureen's heavy boots ground down upon the faces of moss covered boulders as she scaled a steep incline next to a creek. Her heavy breaths created brief puffs of fog in front of her face.

One day, she simply decided that humans were a plague. She didn't come to this conclusion because of brainwashing or some sort of chemical imbalance in her brain. At most, one could argue that her past left her much more receptive to fatalistic ideologies. She thought it through and made the decision to help wipe out humanity. The larger problem is how to accomplish this goal. She certainly wasn't any sort of genetic engineer, biochemist or nuclear physicist. She was quite far from possessing a bottomless bank account, and she had no private army to command. She could barely get her dog to obey orders. Ultimately, she turned to the only option available for the would be genocidist on a budget, supernatural intervention. She always believed in the supernatural, so it wasn't a stretch for her to look into cults. In an area of the country with a rich history of witch burnings, one can find a cult with a minimal amount of effort. Six years worth of rituals and incantations, and nothing to show for it.

Maureen put all of her energy into the cult's activities at first. She truly wanted to succeed in bringing an end to the human race. She did research, bought supplies and meditated for hours to find the path to destruction. On a number of occasions, she felt as if she had been lead to the answer. That the next gathering would set things in motion. The fact that she was pushing the long limbs of pine trees out of her path as the din of a small city's bustle found its way into her ears is evidence enough of how successful she had been.

The forest ahead of her was thinning out, and the black of the oversized parking lot where her rusted Toyota sat could be seen peeking through the tree trunks. She imagined herself getting out of her car in the future. She saw herself stepping down the embankment towards the tree line with her backpack, on her way to another gathering she didn't want to attend. Then she made a new decision. She decided that the cult was a waste of time and effort. This wasn't an epiphany. In her heart, she knew this to be true a long time ago. A large amount of despair and a pinch of pride held her to these rituals. At least there was some sort of hope that way, but she could only delude herself for so long. No amount of rare plants, chanting, drawn symbols or sacrificed animals were going to raise the souls of dead and usher in the end of the world. She was thirty-four years old and no closer to a content existence than she was before. A single word worked its way into her mind... hermit. She was probably a prime candidate. A life alone, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but the landscape and animals around her. She actually cracked a small smile at the idea. She could be pretty damn happy that way, and she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before.

The toes of Maureen's boots dug into the soft earth of the small hill before her. Her eyes stared down at her feet as she searched her mind for the perfect spot to retreat to. Adirondack was enormous, and there were a number of places that would be more than secluded enough. She was pulled from her state of distraction as she crested the hill. A shrill scream shocked her back to attention and set every hair on her body on end. Her muscles locked up in a panic as she snapped her wide eyed head up. The sun was low in the sky and cast an orange glow over everything, except for where it shone a sparkling ruby color as it passed through a veritable fountain blood.

The scream devolved into wet sucking noise followed by a hollow sputtering, like the first shot of air and warm water out of a garden hose that has been laying on a driveway. Gray fingers dug underneath this poor woman's jaw and tore through the flesh as a partially eaten teenager ripped the nape of her neck away in between his teeth. She thrashed and convulsed under the chomping jaws of this thing. Maureen stood paralyzed by the horror she was witnessing. Slowly, she began to notice the rest of the parking lot. People were running everywhere. Cars were crashed into each other at the entrance, and people were fleeing on foot. Here and there small huddles could be seen along the ground. She could only assume that they were doing what the young man in front of her was doing. Eating.

That whole cult thing sounded like an even worse idea now. Some years ago, if you would have described this scene to her, it would have been like a holiday print from Currier & Ives. Now, standing here, the full weight of what they were trying to achieve settled on her chest. She was wrong about the cult. They had actually succeeded.

Control of her muscles was returning to her, and she began to step to her left to move around the carnage and get to her car. With Maureen now moving, the previously preoccupied assailant took a new interest in her. As he pulled himself up onto his lightly gnawed legs, she managed to push out two syllables that quite accurately summed up her current analysis of the situation :

“Oh, no.”

Sideshowdown

2008-04-22T07:55:00.011-06:00

By the grace of God I spin around with barely enough time to flee forward from the three undead Burns children that had emerged feral and angry from the screen door of the farmhouse. I drop my canteen - the organic juice jar half full of lukewarm water. It shatters on the pavement and I take off in a sprint down Gorham road. I am less than a quarter mile away from Mom and Dad’s house. The crowbar in my hand wobbles about madly as I run, pitching me slightly off balance. My arm aches and I feel sweat trickle down from my armpits and it itches. The Cat keys are tight in my jean pocket and rub raw against my thigh as I pump my legs. The undead kids are either moving faster than the regular undead I have encountered, or I am just damn slow. They seem to gain faster than they should. I calculate that I cannot make it all the way to Mom and Dad’s. From Gorham Road I cut right through the lush green yard of a very military man and wife whom I grew up next to.

The McCormick’s yard, once immaculate, grew upwards to reclaim the space betwixt expensive patio bricks and curling vines snaked around their metal clothesline poles. The shade from their yard provided a brief few-degree cooling as I dart through its tall grass to reach the property line of my parent’s immediate neighbors. The property line is backed up against the woods I love and I remember the old tree house on the yard’s border, perched in an ancient White Oak. That thing was rickety when I was young but I need it to be there, rickety or not, as the snarling of the mutants grows louder behind me.

I reach the base of the enormous oak and search for the two by fours nailed to the tree that serve as the ladder. There were still several but they were gray and rotting. The nails are rusted and the years had grown around them. Dead wood nailed to live wood. A sick irony if one views it as nature necrophilia.

I have only seconds to get up this tree. In a decision of wretched stupidity, I drop the crowbar on the ground, as I need both hands to scramble and scrape to pull myself up the old wood pieces. I didn’t even think of putting it through the loop of my jeans. Dumbass. I clasp the first “piece of ladder” which looks to be covered in poison sumac and yank myself upward, grateful that the dead and dry wood doesn’t threat to break away. As I whiteknuckle the pitiful wood pieces and grunt to raise up further, a dead hand tries unsuccessfully to grasp my foot. The undead children’s heads are about level with my feet. I swing my foot up wildly to the next piece of wood. I feel a bit of pressure on my foot and kick it away from the source. I look down to see part of the black rubber sole of my shoe being gnawed grossly in the mouth of the little girl. By God, she bit part of my shoe off. I do a quick self-check and assess that my foot is not bit and turn my attention back to scrambling further up the tree.

I am halfway up the gigantic oak before I hear a different growling. I look up above me to see the menacing masked face of a huge female raccoon. She is hunched in the opening of the battered tree house, crouching in an attack position. Her growl is deep like one long internal burp; but more guttural and serious. Shit. Of course it’s not that easy. I grimace and look down; well below me now, the undead brats circle and uselessly claw at the huge old grooves in the oak’s bark. So, here I am with a decision. Well, not really, I don’t have a choice but to keep moving up the ladder. The longer I put pressure on these old pieces of wood, the greater the odds of them crumbling and giving way to my death. My fingers that have gripped the wood sustain a few deeply lodged splinters. My chances of getting mauled by a big raccoon and surviving are better than my chances of jumping to the ground to break my ankle and meet my fate at the mouths of three rabid kids. I would have to fight a raccoon…fuck, and meanwhile my crowbar laughs at me from its snug place in the grass at the foot of the tree. The brats mull around it, here and there unintentionally kicking it and tripping over it.

Oh God, I pray, grant me the strength. I slowly move up another rung, a signal to the hunched raccoon to escalate its defenses to the “baring teeth stage”. It hunches lower and looks more prepared to attack. I’m scared as shit. I do the only thing that comes to mind: I reach into my pocket for the Cat keys. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with them. What? If I toss them past the raccoon into the farthest corner of this tiny one-room tree house, do I think it will go after them like a dog chasing a toy? I hold out the single long Cat key like a little knife between my sweating fingers. I slowly move up the second to last rung before the opening. This is it. Fight time. And I have to do it with one arm wrapped around part of the wood rung as best I can. I don’t even hear the continuing of the moans below or notice Farmer Burns slumping up with his one pitchforked arm to join his brood around the bottom of the tree. I know that if I fall I am done for and the adrenaline surges once again. I have to pee really badly.

Moving up the last rung I take a deep breath and swing out my arm at the raccoon, hoping to (at the very least) catch and scratch its face with the metal key in my hand. It growls loudly and jumps back only to jump forward in a flash and plant its sharp teeth into my forearm creating an instant jolt of red pain. Fucking thing (what if it’s rabid?). I manage to somehow grab one of its black-furred legs by its soft padded foot and pull it down with all the force I am able through the opening of the tree house, screaming and also dropping the Cat keys as I yank it down. It must have weighed fifteen pounds. The animal plunges past me, falling downward the fifteen or so feet, fur shaking like a bear as it lands on top of the little dead boy’s head, knocking him to the ground and biting him in the neck before it scurries away injured into the woods. If I wasn’t so scared and hurt I might have laughed at that ridiculous scene. The little boy, unfazed, clumsily stands up with nothing but a black gaping wound in his neck the size of a half-dollar, devoid of fluids, whereas I am dripping small dots of red everywhere as shaking I desperately climb up through the opening into the old tree house and huffing and crying roll onto my back on the old wood planks, hoping I don’t fall through the old and rotten wood. Fuck….all I can do is cry and press on my trembling arm with my hand to create the pressure of a tourniquet…and say fuck over and over.

The Once and Future Kent

2008-04-20T02:30:00.002-06:00

“Fend For Yourself”

Kent Akerlund stood with his arms akimbo as he stared upward at the large banner hung above his workbench. His vision narrowed to include only those three words. It was no longer just a company slogan. The phrase swelled within his brain and muffled the sounds that echoed throughout the high ceilings of the warehouse.

“You're Goddamn right I will” he muttered under his breath.

In place of a period at the end of the statement rested the Gerber Legendary Blades logo. A sword thrust downward into a mountain like the mythical Excalibur buried to the hilt within a stone. He who could draw Excalibur would be the one chosen to lead the people through their dark times. Kent passed his gaze down to the ax he held in his right hand. Twenty-eight point four six inches of glass filled nylon adorned with a forged steel head designed specifically for splitting a winter's worth of firewood year after year.

“Axcalibur”, he muttered. He even managed a soft and honest chuckle at his private joke.

It was no magical sword, and Kent would settle for it leading him through the dark time waiting outside the door. At this thought, his ears exerted their will on his inflated sense of pride and reminded him that a few friends were knocking at the side door. He let out a long exhale and rolled his shoulders and neck around in large circular motions. The sort of limbering exercises that seem useful but do absolutely nothing to help. Determination drove his heavy heeled steps towards the side entrance. There were only two doorways into the building. The fire escape at the back by the bathrooms was sturdy and quiet. He would worry about fortifying it later. The other was the normal entrance for the employees.

This was an old building. It had been used as the manufacturing center for Gerber for around forty years. The concrete foundation rose up about six feet off of the blacktop lot that surrounded it. Above that was ten feet of brick and cinder block wall. This is where the heavy door frame was secured. Even higher rose the steel beams and walls which held the large dirty windows and a sturdy roof. The grade of the roof wasn't steep since large snow accumulation was rare in Portland. This would make maneuvering along the rooftop a much safer affair, which he figured would come in handy. Half the length of the building contained a second floor about fifteen feet off of the ground. It housed the managers' offices and the break room. This would be a good space for sleeping quarters, and the stairs could be disabled if something went wrong.

Kent passed rows of large machines and tables. A myriad collection of tools and parts sat upon them. That's why he was here. Tools. Lots of them. Tools and survival gear.

Survival Gear.

Funny, that almost no one used any of it to survive anything. Well, maybe that had begun changing already. Perhaps that computer tech who liked having a set of needle-nose pliers with a screwdriver in the handle for convenience found it pretty damn beneficial to have a good serrated blade in there to sharpen a chair leg into a weapon. Survival gear, he was going to put that title to the test. His left hand pulled a sturdy pair of gloves from the thick tool belt which hung lopsided off of his waist. His feet stopped.

“This just won't do,” he said with a shake of his head. On a normal workday, he could stop to adjust his belt when necessary. He didn't have that luxury any more. The buckle's pin was forced into an unfamiliar notch two doors away from its usual home. It disagreed for a moment, but Kent was much larger than it was, and after all, it was just a belt buckle.

Kent ran a final check of his equipment. He pulled the Kevlar sleeves upward along his biceps as far as they would stretch. The TurtleSkin safety gloves were tugged down sharply onto his scarred hands. He hadn't thought all that much about safety equipment until he saw a coworker lose a thumb. The puncture and cut resistant gauntlets were ordered the very next day. They slid around his thick fingers and callused palms as if they were made from a mold of his hands. He was glad to have a broken in pair with him. They're a bit too stiff when brand new, and he needed as much dexterity as he could retain. On either side of his hips was a ridiculously sharp machete with a serrated blade along the back and a fifteen inch hand ax.

About four paces ahead of him stood the door. It shuddered under the constant abuse it received from the other side. Those things had seen him enter, and he knew there were at least a few of them out there. There were good and bad points to the current situation. On the good side, the stairwell leading up to the door came from the left and wasn't very wide. You couldn't fit that many people on it at any given time. Also, these creatures didn't seem to be very bright. It should be easy to trap them. They were also just humans, or they at least possessed normal human muscle mass. This meant that a one hundred-seventy pound man was only as strong as a one hundred-seventy pound man. On the bad side, they seemed to move in packs, so he had no idea how many of them were out there at the moment. Complete pandemonium could be heard outside. The elevated highway was a mere two-hundred meters to the East, and the mass of humanity trying to move along it was creating a cacophony of panic and destruction. He would just have to boot the door open and see what happened. Kent had taken a length of steel and secured it to two heavy tables by the door. With any luck, the dumb beasts would trip over the bar, and he could more easily dispatch them with a blow to the head.

“Time to find out if I'm the adder or the knight.”

His thick steel reinforced boot struck the push-bar on the door with all the strength he could muster. One snarling zombie was flipped backwards over the pipe railing that surrounded the concrete landing in front of the door. A second was knocked sideways towards the stairs. Kent didn't see a sea of undead outside, so that was good. He didn't have much time to scan the area as outstretched arms and snapping jaws lunged through the doorway at him. He hopped back a step and raised the head of the ax up next to his temple. As he had hoped, the first creature rammed its shins into his trap and crashed face first into the floor. A swift radial movement of his hands and the ax head was brought down with ample controlled force. The blade cleaved through the back of the once living man's skull and bit into the concrete floor with a resounding “clank!”

“Thus began the Battle of Camlann.” The words shook as they exited his mouth. Adrenaline was now pumping unabated through his veins, and his muscles quivered as if he had drank a pot of coffee before the fight. Oblivious to fate of the first one in the door, the second zombie pushed in and tripped as well. “Clarsh-Clank.” Another kill.

“Clarsh-Clank”
“Clarsh-Clank”
“Clarsh-Cuutch”

That wasn't the sound he wanted. There was no floor left for Kent to cleave through to. His ax head was now firmly lodged in the shoulder of one of the previous targets, and it didn't look like the next visitor was going to wait for him to shake it free. His left hand pulled up the hatchet from his belt and brought it across the next creature's temple. It stuck for a moment before a sharp kick to the lifeless thing's face loosened it up.

His right hand now drew the machete from its sheath as the seventh zombie pushed through the doorway. The weight on the trap from the bodies caused it to buckle, and the zombie stumbled mostly unchecked into the building. The machete caught it just below its left ear. The body dropped lifelessly to the floor, but the jaw continued to snap at him harmlessly. An eighth was already regaining its footing in front of him. Kent wasn't sure if these things kept their balance the same way living humans did, but he flipped the hand ax around to test it out. The flat hammer-like surface was brought across squarely onto the zombie's skull. The shock did seem to disorient the beast. Unable to keep its feet organized, it fell to the ground sideways. The machete bit into its eyesocket and cut deep into the brain. There was no getting that blade back quickly, so he let it go.

Shifting his remaining weapon to his right hand, Kent spun to face the doorway and engage... nothing.
No shuffling or moaning could be heard on the stairwell. There was only the snapping of the head to his left. In a large arc he brought the back of the ax down across the jaw of the still functional assailant. The bone ripped out of the socket and tore the entire lower half of its face off. The other side sat connected by nothing more than a short length of muscle and sinew. The eyes were unchanged. They darted around as if searching for a part of his body close enough to eat. The bit of muscle still attached to its jaw pulsed rapidly as it still fought to devour him. With a wiggle and a tug, Kent recovered his two-handed ax and turned to the mangled head.

“Clarsh-Clank”

After cleaning his weapons and securing them, Kent stepped outside. He scanned the area. It was an industrial complex, which was good. Less people around to deal with. To his right, he could make out some of the events on the highway. He was glad he wasn't up there. He wondered how long it would be until the screaming stopped. Walking to the front of his former workplace, he could make out more shapes shuffling about in the area. It wasn't the same as elsewhere in the city, though. Up on the highway, they were running and screaming. No idea of what to do. No plan. That's not what was going on here. In the street, some guys were using loading vehicles and trucks with makeshift weapons on the front to wipe out the walking dead. It's just how they do things. Tools are no good without people, and these were the right people. No analysts. No consultants. Not one of these guys prioritized action items. They built. They repaired. Kent had spent ten years in the Army Reserves. He looked at the situation and analyzed the possibilities. There were only two real options :
1.Run to a safe zone.
2.Create a safe zone.
He definitely liked the second option. This area made sense. It had large secure structures and lots of raw materials. Twenty yards ahead of him was a construction supply distribution center. Two miles away was a fresh water lake full of fish. There were two grocery stores within a mile of where he stood, and there were at least twenty other shipping, receiving and manufacturing buildings in the area. There had to be an inordinate amount of food and supplies in close proximity.

He had already made the calls, and people were coming to him. His family. His coworkers. Other laborers from nearby businesses. They were coming here to start construction on a secure compound. They needed to move quickly while the zombie threat was dispersed. They had the tools, the materials, and the people. What they didn't have was time. Of course, with a little luck, perhaps the time wouldn't be a factor. A young man eyed up Kent through the ten foot tall gate across the street. Kent nodded to him and looked both ways before crossing the street.

Excalibur helped to create Camelot.

“Let's see what Axcalibur can do.”

When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you

2008-04-19T10:14:00.002-06:00

http://www.b-squad.org/zombie/zombie-post-tom-01.mp3

Or the text version for those poor souls at work unceremoniously robbed of sound card goodness:

There is no light. There is only the darkness, thick, almost palpable, perfect. I have insisted on being in the front of our tiny line as we creep along, although I’m not sure what good it can do. Finn has stopped crying. He had been screaming for so long it became background noise, the steady undulating cries playing the rhythm section in the orchestra of madness up above. But he has stopped now. Did I mention the darkness? It is suffocating, like being coated in inky black jello, we cannot walk through it so much as wade through, arms stretched out, stumbling over tiny wet imperfections in the floor. The sounds of chaos fade as we make our way forward, but into nothing, vast insurmountable tracts of nothing. Time passes, but I cannot tell how much. We walk. Sometimes we stop to take breaks. I doze off, but no one wakes me. I can’t tell if I’ve been sleeping for minutes or hours. Sometimes Finn cries, and Colleen gently, urgently shushes him. He calms so easily in this dark, as if he realizes that here, in this black, his tiny cries disappear too. No one says much of anything. Our voices feel faint in our own throats, small, unknowable. When we come to a fork in the tunnel, or a branch, or an offshoot of where we travel, there is a brief, tremulous query. The answer is always the same. We do not deviate. It seems to make the most sense to go in the straightest line possible, but there is no way to know if we have simply walked down dozens, maybe hundreds of diverging tunnels. Most often, there is no way to know if we have come to a fork other than to literally walk into it, cursing softly. My fingertips have been rubbed raw, the skin trailing across what must be miles of tunnel walls, and still I cannot bring myself to lift my hand, not even for a moment. Floating here in this impossible silent dark, the cool rugged concrete tunnel walls are all that seem to ground me, to hold me to the very earth. It is insane, but I am afraid that without this touch I will simply float away, disconnect from the group, from the earth, from myself. So we walk, and I grind the tips of my fingers off just to be sure I’m still here. When I die down here, I think crazily, they’ll never be able to identify me. I have no fingerprints. I try not to remember that there is no they anymore. We continue to walk in silence. More than anything, I long to reach out and hold my wife, my son, but I can’t do it here, in this darkness. Too recently has the touch of flesh meant only disaster, only horror. To feel flesh beneath my palms without seeing their faces? I cannot bear the thought. We walk alone. We sleep, huddling as close as we can, no one daring to make contact. Hawthorn moans slightly in his sleep, and I am up. That sound, the moaning. I wonder if a man can live long enough to forget that sound. From the gentle rustle of clothes, I hear that everyone is up, afraid. Even Hawthorne is awake. We sound tired, but too afraid now to sleep. Wordlessly, one by one, everyone begins to stand, and again we walk. I cannot help but notice how like them we must seem now. Slow. Arms hungrily outstetched, not for blood but for light. Oh how I long to see light again! Any light, no matter how faint would be a blessing. I feel thirsty for it, parched of retinal stimulus. For a moment, I begin to believe that my need to see something, anything in this abyss is causing me to hallucinate, and for a moment longer, I am grateful for it. It is not a hallucination. Ahead, at the very ends of the earth, as distant as a tiny sun, there is the faintest prick of light. I turn my head, but it remains fixed. I close my eyes, and for the first time in days, there is difference when I open them again. Light. The others see it, and we pick up our pace, walking faster and faster, chasing that tiny stationary light. For a crazy moment, I think that Hawthorne is moaning again, and then the light winks out, then reappears, then winks out. Hawthorne is not moaning, and something is coming for us.

Stepping into the unknown

2008-03-26T23:56:00.000-06:00

I can't believe I'm in the fucking freezer. I can't believe this is my life. I watch as Finn laughs joyously at the flour spilled on the floor, and how he can make it move and throw it around. His laughter echoes oddly against the sounds of screaming, groaning, thick wet thuds, and electric hissing.

I can't just sit here. I need to move, so I pace. I pace and pace and pace, until I trip, and I realize there is a trap door in the floor. My toe caught it just so-- where the fuck are my shoes? Goddamned hippies. We don't all enjoy being shoeless.

I put Finn behind a shelf of large sacks of grain, and nestle him into a bed of cabbage leaves. He is tired, and soon drifts off.

I move for the door-- this could be the way out, or the way to let them in. I pause, sucking up the will to move forward, and open the door.

There is nothing.

It is dark, it is damp, and there is a ladder going down. It smells a bit like waste, but there is no moaning here, and it seems like it might be a way out. It could just be a place to hide, but either option sounds good right now.

I have no light, so I wait minutes that seem like hours for my eyes to adjust. These are low tunnels, and they look to go pretty far in either direction. I follow along for a while, and find another ladder with another door. It appears that I have found the basement, and those zombies will probably be too dumb to get in.

Maybe there is a way out. I habe no time to explore further, as I have to get back to Finn.

He is still sleeping soundly, so I cover him in blankets and sneak out the freezer door, hoping the sounds of the battle from outside won't wake him.

As the freezer door shuts behind me, I see the chaos about me, and search the room for Tom. I see a toaster and grab it, what a fucking a weapon. A toaster. But, before I can get snarky, my eyes fix on Tom, who is being overcome by one of them.

I run, I leap, I bound, and I smash that fucker's head in. What a gratifying crunch. He was faceless and lifeless, and I think he was one of us at one point. He was also missing his shoes.

Tom looks angry, and asks about Finn-- I tell him I think I found a way out, Finn is sleeping, and we need to get out of here before they eat more of us.

With a few hollers and some fancy footwork, Sage, Juniper, Coriander and Hawthorne are heading toward the freezer. As I step over Jasmine, my throat catches. They were only dreams, but her kindness sustained me, and her lifeless body sent chills up my spine. Are there only 6 of us left?

Once in the freezer I collect Finn and tie him to me in a sling, and explain what I've found. We barricade the door from the crawlers outside, though it is unlikely they will get in, and begin to search for a light source for the tunnels below.

God, I hope we're doing the right thing.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 9

2008-03-18T16:34:00.002-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Oration[artistic]

Region >> Chicago,greater

Type >> Audio ; Voice
Delivery >> Portable Digital Recording Device

Primary Principal >> Chris
Primary Assumptions >> Male ; 20-40 ; caucasian ; Native
Secondary Principal >> Jen (alias:"Babe")

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Playback Source File >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0009

Hunger and Thirst

2008-02-21T09:43:00.002-06:00

In life his name was Craig, but no one called him that. The all called him C-dog, or Crusty. In life he was a drug addict, meth was the drug of choice, but he would do any drugs that came into his possession. In life he was singularly focused, everything he did was leading towards one goal…scoring. He pan handled, did sexual favors, borrowed, and stole to get enough money to buy even the smallest amount of dope. He was no stranger to the hunger he felt now as the walking dead.

He had no recollection of the past, and no knowledge of what was to come, just like in life, he lived in the moment. His singular focus now was for flesh. In life he wandered these streets up and down, trying to score a few dollars either panhandling or pick pocketing. In death he roamed the same streets, around the same places, but just through instinct. He roamed the streets here, just like the other undead crowded around methadone clinics, restaurants, casinos, bingo halls, brothels, arcades, crack houses, tobacco shops, malls, and porn shops. If one were looking for a pattern, it could be seen. A keen observer would have noticed that the ebb and flow of zombies increased under the East Wabash Building just before 9am, around 12pm and just after 5pm, as the habits carried over into undeath and transformed into instinct.

Craig was severely injured at this point. His right leg was blown off; all that was left was a femur bone sticking out of a lump of meat under his hip. His other leg was badly mangled as his lower half had been run over by a tank. He dragged himself across the ground, crawling in hopes of coming across a meal to sate his hunger, if only for a moment.

His method of crawling was unique. He would drag his body forward on the ground, eventually getting his body close enough to where his hands were planted to lift his face up to look around. When he went to move again, his hands would lurch out and his face would slam against the ground, leaving bits of itself in a grim trail.

As he lifted himself up again he was suddenly excited. Flesh… He could see a door opening up and a cart being pushed down the handicapped ramp, it slowly gaining momentum as it headed for the street. Behind it a man ran, pushing it. Craig made his was as fast as he could toward the flesh, his arms grabbing at the ground, frantically pulling himself up and then lurching again, all the while his face slamming against the asphalt.

Creatures rushed from all sides to the man, moving in from each direction, the man pushing behind the cart and deftly maneuvering between them. On occasion the man would let the cart’s momentum take it forward while he attacked the creatures that surrounded him, then he would make his way back to it and push to get it moving faster.

Craig had worked his way across the street and was nearing the trajectory of the man. His path had led him directly next to the cart and with one hand he reached out for the man’s leg. His hand quickly grabbed the shoe and the startled man nearly fell backwards. The cart continuing on toward the curb as the man stumbled. Craig was rewarded with a sharp crack of his skull, as the makeshift machete the man carried made out of the arm of a paper cutter swung down and broke into Craig’s cranial cavity, releasing him from this world and his hunger.

************

I’m not much from planning. I never have been. Most times when a difficult situation raises its head, my first reaction is to tackle it head on. I don’t normally have the patience for meticulous planning. So when I decided to head across the street with the water, it was, as usual, by the seat of my pants.

I decided to bring the water along in hopes of trading something for it. During our conversations Mike and I had discussed leaving. He was hoping to hole up and ride out this situation; I was hoping to get out of town. He had a police officer in his building that offered his keys to me. His vehicle was on the next block, and he had no way of knowing if it was still there, but if I wanted, the keys were mine. They had told me to try to make a break for it and to come over a couple of times, every promise or suggestion had an air of absurdity and humor to it.

At first the idea of crossing the street seemed ludicrous. The road was teeming with undead. But as my days passed and I became isolated, I started looking down from my window thinking, “I think I can make it, it might not be that hard.”

I left my building to get home, but I wanted to help them too though. I didn’t just want to come over and expect to get resources for nothing. These people were struggling too, and I might be taking a resource that they might find useful in the future. I didn’t want to come empty handed. The problem is that five or ten gallons of water aren’t going to last fourteen men very long. My only choice was to load up and head out.

I made it to the center of the street easily enough, stumbling once as a crawler grabbed my ankle. My shoe was still on and the grabber went down with one shot, but that moment of hesitation let all the others gain on me. I saw they were closer and I pushed the cart with everything I had. The whole time motivating myself:

“Come on, you fucking pussy! Push this Goddamn thing! Push you fucking weakling! You got to want it.. Come on…come on….come on. Dig your fucking legs in a push!”

I was closer to the east Wabash building but I still had a short distance to go, and the cart was getting heavier. My legs were exhausted and even though my body was spiked with adrenaline, I was running out of gas. I was near the door on the bottom of the building, my mind screaming now:

“You can make it! Push! You can do this! You’ve got it in you, just a few more yards! You can make it! You can make it! You can make it. You can do this…”

It took only a brief moment for the cart to shift a little on the way up the sloping area by the curb. The water sloshed to one side, its own momentum taking it down. It fell and scattered, one of the containers shattering and letting lose all the precious cargo from inside. I stood there shaking my head in realization…I’m not going to make it.

Walking Beans

2008-02-15T09:27:00.002-06:00

I was in view of my parents’ road, Gorham Road – maybe a mile and a half away when I noticed that the Cat’s fuel gauge was smugly pointing past the letter E. A minute or two later, the machine lurched and sputtered jerking me forward in it and I downshifted the gears with one tired arm, but the machine let out a death rattle (….so much death…) before stalling on the right side of the road between two soybean fields. Exhausted, I undid my seatbelt and assessed the landscape in all direction. Nothing. No movement. Just a few buzzards swarmed in the sky up ahead. I was so close…dammit. And now I had to go the rest of the way on foot. Ugh.

I peeled my sweating back from the black leather cab seat. I turned around in the small space and pulled a lever to move the seat forward; searching for anything I might want to take. I had my crowbar, but if I could double up on weaponry, all the better. A glass jar, nearly full of water was tucked miraculously behind the seat. My mom and dad were notorious for re-filling large glass organic juice jars with the reverse osmosis water from their house and taking a couple jars with them in their vehicles wherever they went. They didn’t trust drinking the water anywhere. And in that moment I thanked God for their alarmist precautions that I had so often made light fun of. I took the jar and guzzled down half the warm water, the combination of water-force and gravity nearly choked me. The sun was high and hot. I grabbed the water jar, grabbed my crowbar, for some reason I also took the keys…and so gingerly I opened the cab door. I leave it open.

I clearly see now that the once yellow body of the Cat is patterned with the blood of my neighbors. It had already started to stink. I knew the safest way to do this was to walk on the side of the road in the field. The brown soybeans were knee high and sparse. It felt good to stretch my legs and as I walk I start to feel a little more awake and alive.

As farmers rotate crops, last year these fields were hay. I recall running into the fields in the cool of summer evenings as a kid at the end of the season. I remember taking a running leap, trying to jump up on the huge bales that were so fragrant and earthsweet. I miss that smell as I miss the woods. The sun mercilessly beat down and I could hear the calls of the buzzards ahead getting louder during their circling ritual.

Keeping vigil in each direction, I continue straight ahead, soybeans slowly smacking at my legs as I crunch them under foot. I am getting close to the Burns’ farm and their Polled Herefords sign in the shape of a brown Hereford cow. This farm meets the end of Gorham Road. Several red pole buildings and sheds dot the farm lot around a white-sided house and initially I detect no movement. Only about a half mile to go now as I prepare to cross over to Gorham Road.

I must have been overly focused on reaching the road because I look up one last time to see that the buzzards were swarming directly over Burns’ farm. My eyes meet with a figure beyond the half acre cow pasture. It is Mr. Burns. He is standing in his bluejean bib overalls and John Deere cap. He is missing an arm tore off at the shoulder and his red plaid shirt hangs shredded where the joint once was. He is holding a pitchfork in his remaining rotting hand and stands with his head oddly tilted. He sees me and begins to moan and move slowly forward in my direction. I don’t get panicky because a good 75 yards separates us as does an electric wire fence. What I failed to hear soon enough, though, was the “clunk, clunk” of the farmhouse’s wooden screen door as it swung open in the midday sun. Farmer Burns’ three young children -- two girls and a boy between the ages of 8 and 11 – undead, foaming at the mouth, irate, growling and hungry emerge from the white farmhouse.... just a few yards away from me.

The Iron Chef Never Has to Deal With This Shit

2008-02-07T23:39:00.001-06:00

“Over there! Fuck yes, and hurry. Everyone, listen up! You and you, whoever you are, start grabbing all the steel tables, turn up em upside down and push em against the wall. Let’s make those motherfuckers work to get in here.”

”You! Find as many mop handles, table legs and chair legs as you can break off and bring them here. You have two minutes. NOW!”

“I need oil of some kind, or lard or something slick, right now and lots of it, gallons if you can find it……..Perfect! Good, grab it and pour that shit all over the floor by the hole in the wall. Let’s try to make ‘em crawl to us.”

“Someone bring me a small sharp knife….., thank you. What’s your name? Fuck, right, sorry, anyway, I need you to get me as many small appliances with electric cords as you can right now. Be back here in one minute. As many as you can.”

“Colleen, find the thermostat for that walk in, turn it down as warm as you can, take Finn, and lock yourself in. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP COLLEEN. THERE’S NO TIME FOR THIS. Sorry. Look, you can’t protect Finn and fight at the same time, I need you in that walk in right now, this isn’t a suggestion, GO, GO, GO”

“Okay, thanks for the knife. Where are my appliances? Get over here! Now! C’mon c’mon c’mon, that’s enough, FUCK!, there’s no time, bring them all here, now.”

“I need you to take this knife and cut the power cords off of the appliances, fast as you can and try to fray the edges, expose as much bare wire as you can.”

“Okay, every one listen up, I’m going to try and electrify the tables, if you touch the steel, you will die, so stay the hell away from them”

“Get over here, you, you, and you, and help me move these refrigerators. After they get through these tables, I want them bottle necking through here. MOVE MOVE COME ON! Push. Good, good, that’s fine. They’ll have to come between here now. Oh fuck I can hear them. Fuck, fuck fuck. “

“Enough, enough. Okay, listen up everyone, we have exactly no time. Everyone grab a chair leg or a broom handle or something, the longer the better. Hey! Put down the fucking knife, man, they don’t care if you cut them. We need to smash their fucking heads in, and that’s a lot harder to do than it sounds, so if you can trap them or immobilize them or whatever, good, great, we’ll come back for them if we live through this thing, but whatever you do don’t forget about them. They will grab you even if they are supremely fucked up, so stay away from the mangled ones. Stay together as much as you can.

“Here they come, here they come, Oh mother fuck me, here they come.”

I’d like to say that the rest of the battle was a blur, that it was over before we knew it, but it wasn’t. There’s a kind of hyper-clarity to the memories of a trauma that convinces me that if we were made, we were made by someone intent on sowing the seeds of our self-destruction into the very mechanics of our minds. They came full force, no trickle, no prelude, but a wave of them, stinking like raisins, sweet and musty and obscene, moaning that low dry sound, the sound of unthinking need. They came with their hands almost comically outstretched. I might have laughed if not for the knowing that their grasping claws were aimed at our soft, living flesh. When I close my eyes, I still hear them, much like you might feel the soft bob of the ocean even after you’re back from sea. When I eat, I smell them, and when I sleep, I feel those cold, hard hands pulling dumbly at my flesh.

The tables did slow them down at first. The electrical current turned them stiff as boards. From where I stood, table leg clenched in my hands like a bat, I could see every muscle in their bodies contracting, turning them to statues. They began to smoke and twitch. I hoped and feared that they would catch on fire, but none of them did. They just stood there looking rather like far too realistic Halloween decorations. But it didn’t last. It couldn’t. There were too many of them, and all too soon they had jostled the tables enough to knock the frayed loose wires clear. As quickly as they had turned to stone, they turned back, moving forward like a terrible switch had been thrown.

The oil on the floor worked no better. They fell all right, each one of them that I saw cross that slick tile floor went down in a heap, but they didn’t even try to stand back up, they just crawled forward, slipping less now they were on all fours. They came at us like animals, never once changing their terrible relentless pace. It was my intention to stay together, to try and hit them as they crawled toward us one at a time down the refrigerator hallway I had made, but our line broke before it had a chance to get started, and a young man rushed forward to club the closest ghoul to us. Even as he ran forward, I could see what was going to happen, I tried to warn him, but there was no time. One minute he was running forward, makeshift club raised for the killing blow, the next he hit the oil slick himself. His feet flew out from under him and he landed sickeningly on his head. Almost immediately, blood began to pool around him and his legs twitched spastically, beating a staccato rhythm on the tile. In a moment, the ghouls were on him, ripping and pulling, biting at any exposed flesh they could get. This was by far the most successful diversion. Another moment and the young man’s legs stopped twitching. Somewhere in that room, someone screamed. A man, a woman, I don’t know, but that scream unleashed the pent up fear and anger and sadness we all had been feeling since this nightmare began. In a moment, we were transformed into animals ourselves. We were rage embodied; we were each one of us the personifications of unchecked hate. We were no longer a group, but lone warriors that happened to be fighting the same enemy in different wars. As I ran forward, pistoning my club down upon the heads, necks and whatever else I could strike, I was no more aware of my comrades in battle than a tiger is aware of a fly. I struck everything that reached for me, everything that stank of death and threatened to destroy me, my life, my family.

As they pressed forward, I became aware, for a split second, that the woman in front of me was the same one that had been so kind to Colleen a few moments ago. Even as I recognized her I was striking the second and third blows, sending blood high into the air with each impact. Looking back, I believe she had turned. I know when I struck her, that she was already one of them; that she had changed before I struck her down. When I dream though, I still see that smile just before her face is crushed.

Just as I was pulling my club up again to face the next of them, I felt a great tug, and my table leg was pulled from my hand by the outstretched hand of a crawling zombie. As soon as he had the club he dropped it, reaching back up toward me. I was defenseless, surrounded. Desperate, I aimed a kick at its head. Its open jaw clicked shut hard, and from between the shut teeth fell the front half of the things tongue. I reached out a hand, flailing for anything to use to escape their terrible press. My hand hit metal and I grasped and swung for the first thing coming toward me. I saw with horror even as I swung, that I had nothing more substantial in hand than an enormous metal whisk. The flimsy metal wires bounced harmlessly off the face of the creature, and in moments I was in his grasp. His hands and arms worked to pull me closer to the snapping jaws of its mouth even as I pushed and struggled to keep him at bay, but he was stronger than I was, and my face was being steadily pulled closer and closer toward him. I searched about for something to use, some secret final something to get me out of here, when I saw the toaster.

It sliced through the air like a potentially delicious morning star, building speed and energy as it swung from its cord and ended its descent in the skull of the creature. Immediately, its hands released me and it fell to the ground. I spun around to see my savior, and was both grateful and horrified to see Colleen, standing without Finn, bloody toaster cord wrapped tightly around her hand.

“Finn’s fine. He’s in the freezer, and I think there’s a way out. C’mon” she said.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 8

2008-01-29T17:25:00.000-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Altercation[violent,zed class]

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Playback Source File >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0008

Preparing for Kitchenloo

2008-01-24T11:35:00.000-06:00

I wake up in an old industrial kitchen...

'But I thought I was already awake... how did I get here?'

I look to realize I am slumped quite uncomfortably in a corner against a cabinet, with Finn nestled sweetly in my lap.

'I thought I was in containment... what is going on here?'

There is madness around me. People moving swiftly and quietly fashioning crude weapons from kitchenware, cabinetry, and furniture.

I can hear the groaning in the not so distance halls.

'These are the hippies... I am still underground... but where is Tom?'

I sit up to get a better view but an stopped short by the unbelievable agony in my head and neck.

'Fuck, it must have been part of the sickness, a delirious day dream. I am still sick, and no one has told me what is wrong with me yet, or how I got sick. Will I die this way?'

A teenager I have never seen before sees that I am awake and calls for Tom, just as I begin to vomit from the pain in my head. I slump back to the floor, holding Finn tightly, and watch as a man tears the legs off of chairs, and alters a blender and a wire whisk into something nightmarish. I begin drifting....

The teenage girl is in my face now, "You mustn't fall asleep, there is going to be a battle, we need you to be awake now, for your baby!"

But all I can do is stare and nod... and the nodding makes me wretch again. This headache is literally crippling me.

'battle? what the hell is this underground hippie yapping about???'

And then i hear the groaning again, and I know they're coming for us. And I cannot even lift a finger to defend myself or my precious child.

'How long have I been like this?'

I drift....

Tom and the old bearded hippie are talking to me now. The hippie is Sage, the teenager is Jasmine. They are going to give me a shot... it might help... it might not. But we are cornered and we have to fight, so if the shot doesn't work, I have to hide. I need to protect my Finn, so I will have to stay quiet. Not even a peep, so that they won't hear us, and come for us.

'Oh God... where are you?'

'OUCH!'

I guess that was the shot.

Tom is telling me he loves me, and he will fight for us. He is telling me he needs me to wake up now, and get better. I can hear the tension, and fear in his voice. I can hear the tears welling up in his voice. I wish I could talk to him, tell him I love him too. Say goodbye...

a moment passes.... nothing changes.

and another.

and another.

and another.

Then my eyes are open and I can see, and the waves of pain seem less, so I sit up. I look at Tom, and he laughs and hugs me with tears in his eyes. He clutches me to him as if I might fall, and I weakly clutch back, crying with the relief of he pain, and the joy of reunion. Team Curry is back in action.

We are interrupted by Sage "I hate to break up the reunion, but we have a battle to prepare for, and we need both of your help."

I turn to Sage, accusingly, "When this shit is over I need you to tell me exactly what was in that shot, and why you didn't give it me days ago." With each moment, it seems, my vision is clearer, my head is lighter, and the pain is less powerful.

He responded, "We did, right away, and you improved. You were near death when we found you. We hoped your body would do the rest with time, but we no longer have any time. We had a limited supply of the serum, and have given you the last of it. I'm glad it has helped you, but now if one of us gets sick from the virus, we will surely perish." His face looked grave, and stoic. "But we can worry about that after we get out of here..."

I say, sheepishly, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Thank you for helping me. Now can someone tell me what we're doing about those zombies? They're getting closer."

And Tom starts to fill me in on the battle that is to come, and our strategy...

Small Talk

2008-01-08T10:19:00.000-06:00

Polite conversation disappears when you need to conserve your language. I’ve been communicating with Mike the construction worker I saw across the street when the soldiers were still below. We can’t shout to one another. He’s too far away, and my building isn’t secure. Calling attention to myself with the sea of undead below me is not on the “to do” list. We communicate with each other by writing things down and holding it up for each other to read. I have half a dry erase board I ripped from the wall in the conference room, he has a almost fully used easel pad. With his writing surface slowly running out, we can’t spare any niceties.

I have talked with him for the last week, on and off, a couple of messages a day. We trade stories about what we have to eat and drink, and how we have secured our areas. I tell him I want to come over to him and his group, but he may as well have a base on the surface of Mars. The chances of making it across that zombie laden road below are very, very low.

It’s been three weeks since I came here and holed up. I slept almost the entire first week. I would get up and stumble to rest room, or fill my water, but mostly I slept. I couldn’t leave with my side the way it was, and my body just wanted to shut down anyway. It’s funny, I am normally an insomniac, but I had no issue sleeping at all for a full week. After three weeks of inactivity, my head and shin are fine. My bullet wound was really just a graze, it did no permanent damage, and it is scabbed up quite well. I can move just fine and feel ok, if not a bit tired and hungry.

I woke up depressed and alone. I contemplated killing myself. Go out quick instead of a painful starving or dehydration death. I stopped myself when I thought about my wife. I made a promise to her, “till death do us part.” My interpretation of that does not include death at my own hands.

I find out from our conversations that Mike has 21 people in his building. 14 of them were his crew that is remolding the upper floors. The rest of them are people that came to him looking for help. He says they have enough food to get by, but water is running scarce. He has no way to get any water, and since it hasn’t rained in days, they don’t even have any water from the buckets on the roof. I tell him I have 40 gallons of drinking water in my office alone, not including the rest of the offices. “Doesn’t do me any good over there,” was his only reply.

I break into each of the offices on my floor looking for supplies and useful items. I find some chocolates, batteries, a whistle, a new bag, and lots of other useful things. I knock the lock of Regina’s office. Regina is the president of central processing, and probably one of the most important people on our level. She is at her desk, dead since the beginning I gather. She has her scissors on her desk, and it looks as if she opened her arms with them. She sits in her executive leather office chair. On her mahogany desktop sits her blackberry, and her laptop, below her on her expensive carpeting there is a large patch of dried blood.

She was a stone cold terror in the office. People would see her and walk the other way. The people that worked under her lived in daily fear that she would confront them. I couldn’t imagine her doing something like this. Then I remember that I considered doing something like this. I look at her disgusted. In reflection, I was probably more upset with my weakness than with hers. I storm out of the room and decide on a plan.

I take the bolt off of the industrial size paper cutter in the back office. The paper cutter handle is two and a half feet long and has a nice handle on it. It is the perfect makeshift machete. I grab the cart the water sits on, it’s got slots for 16 bottles, 80 gallons. There are 5 bottles in it. The rest of the offices on my floor fill the cart easily. There is more water here than the Shedd Aquarium. I take the cart to the stairwell and I march each bottle downstairs to the lobby. I don’t run into anything during the 17 trips up and down the stairs, the lobby is clear too. It looks like the soldiers cleared it out for a base of operations. I set the cart up in the dock area and retreat upstairs. I am too tired tonight to even consider it, but tomorrow morning I am making a break for the East Wabash building.

I Think of the Woods

2008-01-04T12:31:00.000-06:00

I shift the Cat and head through my front yard to Route 47. Out of habit I look both ways down the vacant road. I can see the horses in the neighbors’ corral across the field standing dejected, ribs visible and looking at me with pitiable eyes as I turn south.

After a couple of miles, my numb mind shifts. Maybe it is a defense mechanism triggered by my state of emergency only read about in books.

I timetravel.

When I was a kid, my brothers John and Aaron and I, along with most of the Kelly kids next door – Brian, Mike, Jack, Bonnie, Erin and Kevin – ruled the expanse of woods behind our houses. We were Marine snipers, Robin Hoods, ghost-hunters, archaeologists, builders, motocross racers, and land governors in those hilly woods. A group of 8 to 14-year-olds with more imagination, resourcefulness and drive than most adults.

I am almost to DuPont, ready to make the right turn I have made a thousand times before.

One of the many innovative projects we put together like a junior A-Team was an underground dwelling that seated about 5. There was an old tin hunting shanty in the woods, which was about the size of 3 outhouses. Its floor was two large plywood panels. About fifteen yards away was a large hollow stump. It held an opening wide enough for all of us to slip through. As a team that worked more diligently than most modern-day contractors, we all took shovels and dug a deep square pit into the earth, roughly 7 feet wide, by 7 feet long and about 5 feet deep. This pit was positioned between the hunting shanty and the old tree stump. Once the main portion was carved out, the guys began to dig trenches just as deep and about 2 feet wide; one leading under the stump and one leading under the shanty, where one of the guys cut a square out of the plywood in the floor, making a trapdoor. Us girls took buckets to the creek and dug up gray clay with our hands which we used to form around rocks in the main portion of the underground fort, forming and sculpting a working fireplace with a chimney. Once the groundwork was complete, pieces of plywood were put over everything and dirt covered them, then brush.

I turn onto DuPont. Another vacant road. An overturned grain truck lies on its side in the ditch up ahead. A streak of blood paints the road beside it, but no zombies in sight.

It was an amazing thing to run through the woods that winter like Lost Boys, being chased by friends unfamiliar with our project and we’d laugh and then jump up onto the stump and slip down through the corridor trenches as our friends stopped mouths gaping in amazement before following. Glow roots dotted the earth as greenish white against the pitch black as one army-crawled through the trenched tunnel. Anyone with claustrophobia would have died. In reaching the main pit, you could see the orange glow of the fire and several of our gang sitting in this Hobbit’s room with their winter jackets off. Because one could not back up while crawling to the main area, they would simply go through the main room and continue through the corridor that led to the trapdoor in the hunting shanty. It was perfect.

I realize I am crying at this point. I want to be that kid again hiding out in an underground fort from nothing dangerous, but just for the sake of being able to hide out. I want to be in an ingenious underground fort fashioned by babes again, warming myself against a makeshift fireplace, roasting marshmallows.

I am apexing the dip in DuPont road. Woods flank each side of me, but not My Woods. I am heading towards My Woods.

It was a few years later that the plywood used as the fort’s roof eventually rotted and caved in. In hindsight, admittedly, the whole idea of kids constructing this type of fort would be seen as insanely dangerous today. It was a different time then. The shanty was eventually dismantled and the ground cleared. But I think if this catastrophe of humanity had happened when we were kids, we would have been ok. Like the survivalist boy in My Side of the Mountain or the kids in Lord of the Flies, but with democracy. We watched out for each other. We were a well oiled machine. And now the only machine I can rely on was made on an assembly line.

Only about 5 more miles until I reach Gorham Road. I’m only going 18 miles per hour. God, let there be no problems. Let my family be ok. Let this big machine not draw attention to its loud self. I’m so tired…

I hope I can muster up the ingenuity that I partook in as a 9-year-old to build a defense against these undead enemies. It might not be underground and made of dirt. It might not even be made of tangible materials and moved with hands. But maybe simply a psychological defense. A mind fort. An underground mind fort. I plead to my 9-year-old self. I plead back to my brothers and friends and I plead to the woods to provide me with safety and resourceful once again…

Yes, I think of the woods.

There will be time, there will be time, to murder and create

2007-12-30T15:54:00.000-06:00

I have no idea what the hell is wrong with Colleen. As if it isn't enough that the goddamn world seems to have been infested (infected maybe?) with the un-fucking-dead, now I've got the damn wife passed out and muttering about hippies and quarantines and god knows what else. She passed out after we kicked down the first wall; a time that seems so long ago, but that I know (think, I don't really “know” anything these days) was still part of today. What does a day even mean anymore? There's no natural light down here (and while we're at that, can someone tell me just how in the hell we have power ?) and all of the other markers of a sane and routine existence have long since ceased to be. Its funny how so often my days have been defined by the proximity to a meal. In real life, I remember thinking, it's lunchtime, or almost time for dinner, or, my favorite, time for a midnight snack. Time was so closely tied to the normalcy of everyday things, of eating and sleeping and obligations like work and home, bath time for the kiddo, nap times. All the parts of a normal day had their own special time. So when the hell is drag-your-unconscious-muttering-wife-on-a-makeshift-hammock-
fashioned-from-a-blanket-through-a-secret-underground-military-
compound-that's-been-overrun-by-zombies-time? Huh? Just when the fuck is it time to look startled at a man whose become a leader of a sequestered people when he suggests that the only way to get out of the room currently besieged by dead accountants and high school students is to kick a hole through the plaster walls and hope that what lies on the other side is a room moderately more safe than the one we are in? And who in the jumping jesus christ on a crutch is going to tell me when its time to hand your infant son to some stranger and ask another to help you drag your wife through the tiny gaps in the walls even as the door behind you begins to crumble, splinter, and give in from the terrible weight of the hungry dead? I wonder, as I put my aching foot into and through the next wall only to feel my foot immediately gripped by cold iron hands that pull me off my feet, knocking me to the ground, just what the clock for these times looks like. Do we meet for lunch when the big hand reaches ghouls and the little hand is resting on the image of a small band of deliciously named strangers pulling on my shoulders to haul me back through and out of the reach of the hungry hands that are trying to rip and pull my leg through the gap I created in the wall? I'm hardly even surprised when they succeed, and I tumble backward into the room we are now trying to escape, the seventh such room, the seventh safe wall we've kicked through, and I hardly even feel anything anymore as I brush myself off, and turn to a different wall at a right angle to the one that is now alive with grasping hands and stupid hungry faces. It's time, I think a little crazily, to try a different wall. Without any real thought, without a plan, knowing that when all the options are equally unknowable, any attempt at knowing is a fruitless waste of what seemed to be very precious time, Sage and I wordlessly begin to kick at the plaster interior wall at a right angle to the wall we came through and also perpendicular to the wall of new threats, the pandoras box I just kicked open. We were hoping to use this method to avoid hallways and corridors, open passage areas, and so we had to be conscious as we navigated of where we thought the hallways would be. I imagined briefly what that moment would be, the first kick from my now wobbly legs noisily breaking the plaster, announcing like a dinner bell to the streaming, meandering undead that dinner was served. I could almost hear their moans growing louder as we inadvertently opened our tiny world up to the threat just a few inches of plaster away. All of these thoughts, these images (I never used to be a visual person, but when presented with horrors, my mind seems to have kicked itself into horror overdrive) flashed through my torn and exhausted imagination without registering an emotional response. At this point, I almost didn't care what happened. I was becoming a machine, reduced to fighting only because fighting was what was next. There it was again, I thought, hauling Colleen's unconscious form none too graciously over the powdered gypsum and between two wooden studs (wooden studs, this was an old facility) and into the next room, grateful for its interiority and silence. Next. Next room, next time, the time that follows or will follow this time. I felt myself becoming somewhat punchdrunk with the exhaustion of it all and didn't care. I looked around this new room, this room of now, and stopped thinking all together, gaping stupidly. We stood in a huge commercial kitchen, gleaming of stainless steel workspaces and industrial cook tops and ranges. A massive steel door revealed a walk in freezer or cooler, and I could hear the almost insanely comforting and familiar hum of its compressors. Dinner time I thought both sarcastically and with total seriousness. I was hungry. Very very hungry. I tried to remember when I had last eaten and realized I didn't know, couldn't remember, didn't care. What I cared about was eating now, eating next, and eating a lot. I became aware a moment later of Finn's screaming and realized he'd been crying, bawling really, for who knew how long. Who could blame him. This wasn't a baby's world, hell it wasn't an adults world. This was a world where only the mad felt safe, and they were wrong to feel it. This was the place, I realized. This was where we had to make a stand. This kitchen, these freezers, all of it was ours to claim, and our only chance to survive. We had to eat now, or be eaten. Even as I realized this, I saw the same thing flash across Sage's eyes and we looked to each other grimly. Something terrible was going to happen here. He knew it; I knew it, and we both knew, even as we began to slide a huge stainless steel freezer to block the hole in the wall we had just climbed though, that it was time.

Dear Diary...

2007-12-09T17:54:00.000-06:00

I hated the old hippie, and I didn't trust these fuckers as far as I could throw them-- and that wasn't very far in my current condition. They all seem weird, and socially removed. It's like they have their own norms down here, and their methods of communicating, moving, and heirarchy are all so foreign. I've never been to another country before, but our differences didn't just stop at social niceties. I couldn't put my finger on it, but they were more primal than us, almost more animal...

I'm still sick-- real sick, but I don't vomit anymore and they say that is an improvement. Though they don't advise it, finn has been nursing like mad. I know I'm sick, but I want him to get my antibodies so he doesn't get sick too. They say it doesn't work like that, but fuck them. what do they know? Fucking troglodytes. I'm his mother and I decide how this goes, not them. I guess I'm not a very good house guest for trolls.

I'm more exhausted than ever, and Tom has had to recap for me what was said in our little 'debriefing', and has kept me abreast of news as it has come.

I am in containment. I have been here with Finn for a few days-- not sure how many. I was able to walk out of that room, but only for about an hour, and then I collapsed. We had to break down some walls and backtrack through these crazy tunnels to get away from the hourdes of undead that were now underground with us. No one is sure how they got here, since they are so dumb. But it only takes one...

I'm in a dimly lit room with a cot, bathroom facilities, this notebook and pencil, and not much else. I'm thankful for the dim lighting because this migraine is still fierce, but sometimes I think I feel it starting to wane. They say I have to stay in here until six days after the headache passes. Sometimes I think that will be the rest of my life. Tom is allowed to visit an hour each morning and afternoon. He brings me food-- if you can call it that, and tells me about the hippies. I spend most of my time sleeping, but I have horrible dreams, so I shower a lot, too. There's no soap or shampoo, but a little hot water is usually all the doctor ordered to clear my head.

Hazel comes in three times a day to 'check on me' and administer more medicine. She says she was the woman outside my door when I first came to, and she was in charge of my recovery. She seems dim, but well meaning, and against my better judgement I trust her. She says I nearly crippled sage with that kick. Good to know I can still pack a punch when I'm incapacitated. She seems impressed by my skill and strength. I get the impression she hasn't met too many 'emancipated' women from above ground before. Her adoration is annoying but cute.

Oh, it's Tom time to visit with us, and I'm eager to show him how well Finn has learned walking in the last several hours. He slept through Tom's last visit.

More later, goodbye for now.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 7

2007-12-03T21:10:00.000-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Exodus

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Third Principal >> Ron (Deceased)
Third Assumptions >> Male ; 18+ ; Widowed

Playback Source File >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0007

The Leaning Tower

2007-11-28T18:40:00.000-06:00

From the corner of Richard's ruined mind, he recognized the ding of opening elevator doors as some sort of signal. No longer able to process what the sound might portend, Richard was drawn to the sound by the undeniable force of his unrelenting hunger. Like a living fire blazing within him, the only thing still living within him, Richard's hunger grew with each moment until it was raw torment, a twisting, gaping need that filled him with an unknowable void that must be filled. Had he any semblance of self left in his shattered mind, this terrible need would have destroyed it, ravenously devoured any soul or mind or sanity in this thing, obliterated through this hunger's singular insatiable desire.

Staggering forward, mindful only of the sounds of the footsteps and heavy breathing that followed the ding of the opening elevator doors, Richard made his way out of the wreck that used to be his office. Moving in a straight line, clambering over an upturned chair instead of going around it, doing the same for the boxes of paper and the file cabinet that were now strewn across his previously immaculate office, the thing that was Richard made his way into the hall.

Without the hesitation of thought and doubt, Richard began his slow stumble toward the sounds of a man cursing softly in the office down the hall. The closer Richard got to the source, the more his hunger gnawed at him. His mind was hungry, his very blood seemed to teem with an angry, buzzing need. He began moaning in an ecstasy of anticipation.

As Richard began to moan, the large man sitting atop a mahogany executive desk dressing a leg wound looked up. The man on the desk was easily twice the mass of Richard, and not the type of man who, in saner times, would or should be afraid of a slight, and slightly pudgy man like Richard, but these were not sane times, and the large man's eyes widened in shock and fear immediately. This man, most recently nicknamed "Juice," looked around the office desperately for something to use as a weapon even as Richard pushed forward down the hall, moaning.

In the corner, dusty and unused, near a plaque for the 1999 Century Insurance Invitational, lay a cheaply gold plated golf club. Juice seized the club and held it in his trembling hands as Richard moaned his way into the office, hands outstretched and grasping, mouth crazily snapping, strings of thick saliva pouring down his chin. Juice pulled the club back, raising its weight over his right shoulder, poised to strike, feeling the reassuring bulge of his massive frame ready for the blow.

Richard stepped forward again, still moaning, and that was all Juice needed. That step brought him within range of the club and Juice yelled crazily as he swung, ripping the air with the speed and ferocity of the strike. The weighted wooden bulb streaked through the air crashed into Richards face like a miniature freight train, sending teeth flying from his head like tiny bloody shrapnel, crushing his jaw and pushing it obscenely off to the side, where it hung, stupid and useless. Even as the wooden club's head smashed into Richard's face, destroying it, it broke from the shaft. The continued motion of the sharp aluminum stick ran like a blade down Richard's neck, slicing it if not cleanly, efficiently in a jagged line, deep enough to expose the windpipe. Blood immediately began to ooze in thick, curdled streams from the frightful gash.

For a moment, Juice felt triumphant. He had connected with that ghoul hard enough to kill a god and he knew it. But he wasn't fighting gods, or men, and though his face was an unrecognizable lump of crushed bones and blood poured in thick streams down his chest, Richard didn't go down. Instead he reached out and grasped Juice, pulling and clutching with surprising strength. Juice, still holding the ruined golf club, shoved Richard back with all of his strength. Richard flew back a couple of feet and crashed to the floor in a heap, but before Juice could react, Richard began crawling toward him, and now the moaning started again, this time sounding thick and gurgling as the air in his lungs mixed with the streams of blood still pouring from his ragged neck and face. Juice was beginning to panic, and, thoughtless with fear and rage, raised the stump of a golf club and brought it down again and again on the crawling, bloody former actuary. Juice was a powerful man, and the force of the blows knocked Richard prone, but the instant the club lifted from his back, Richard was beginning his crawl again, and before Juice could realize what was happening, Richard had a hold of his leg and brought his ruined face to it, trying to close the dangling mess of a jaw on Juice' leg. Roaring, Juice raised the bent and nearly worthless club into the air and drove it down like a lance into Richard's back. He could feel the shock of the club as it first hit Richard, then pierced him, crunching and cutting with its saw tooth tip first through skin and muscle, and then through bone and gristle. For a split second, Juice thought he could feel the thing rip a hole right through Richards heart before the tip slammed its way out the front of Richard's chest, through the thin carpet, and into the plywood, pinning Richard like a bug against the floor. Juice, raised his head and began to howl in primal, triumphant rage, when he felt the crushing pressure of Richards decimated, nearly toothless jaw bear down upon his leg in precisely the spot where that bitch had clawed him earlier. Looking down more in amazement now than pain, he realized that this thing was trying to gum him to death and he nearly laughed when one of the teeth still left in Richard's mouth managed to push its way through the makeshift bandage Juice had applied to his leg. That single, sharp piercing rekindled his rage, and juice jerked his foot out of the grasp of the squirming bloody thing, raised it chest high, and began to drive his foot down into the skull of Richard again and again. A few moments later, panting, Juice realized it was over. Richard's head was a mess of bone, brain, blood, and hair, and Juice was covered in the same. He sat heavily on the desk, panting.

A few moments later, Juice jerked his head up, realizing dimly that he'd been staring at the wall opposite him, but not remembering why or for how long. He knew he was in trouble, and was vaguely curious about the corpse on the floor, but even as he tried to remember where he was, the answers seemed to dance out of reach. Vaguely, he understood that he was beginning to drool, but before he could reach up to wipe his chin, his pupils expanded, and the world was painfully bathed in light. Moaning, he reached out, and stood up. He was slipping, his memories growing harder and harder to reach. A moment later, Juice tried to remember his name. He thought for a moment it had something to do with water, but that passed from his mind as quickly as it came, not to be replaced. Even as he tried to concentrate, his feet shuffled forward. He began to become aware, as if from a distance, that he had stopped shaking. A calm settled over his mind, erasing not only worries, but thoughts, and after the thoughts went, memories. With a blank mind the most studious Buddhist monk would envy, the thing that used to be Juice became aware he was hungry.

Salvation

2007-11-19T09:23:00.000-06:00

I don’t know what kept me staring down the eight floors to the street below. The moment I saw the soldiers my first thought was, “thank god, I’m saved.” But yet I hesitate. Maybe it’s the carnage, the utter bedlam that keeps me watching, like a car accident you don’t want to look at but cannot turn away from. The hordes of undead crash like ships on an unforgiving shore. The soldiers keep firing, on occasion a tank will fire an explosive round blowing up all the ghouls in the area of impact and leaving a crater a few feet deep. The gunshots and shouts thicken the air until the cacophony it nearly too much to bear. My eyes focus on all the action, darting back and forth taking it all in.

I find it odd that something outside of this chaos could divert my attention. But as I watch the fight rage on below I see something flicker in the corner of my eye. Someone is looking down as I am; they lean out the window across the street a floor below me. They light a cigarette and watch the action. They are dressed in jeans and a work shirt, with a Florida Marlins cap on. They watch as intently as I, and as if a sixth sense notifies them, they look up at me staring at them.

We look at each other for a moment. He’s older than I. Possibly in his forties. A graying beard and sideburns cover a tanned face. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and slowly shakes his head at me.

I wonder what he is shaking his head about. It’s almost a disapproving shake, the kind your father would make if he caught you sneaking out of the house. I wonder what he disapproves of. Does he know my plan of going to the street below? How could he? Does my face belie my intentions? I wonder about his reaction for a few seconds. This few moments is the only delay I need to make me abandon my plan.

I turn my head as I hear the cries from below. These are not the occasional shrieks of ghouls, or the orders shouted by a sergeant to his troops. No, these are civilians. The tide of undead has slowed considerably from the west. I guess the building a few blocks away housed a group that had the same plan as I. When the street looks clear they start to run. They pour out onto the street, and there are about twenty of them. Some start to run and leave the rest to fend for themselves. Two men push a wheelchair; its passenger, an elderly woman, clings to it for dear life. A few injured people hobble along as best they can. They move quickly, but zombies ooze out of the buildings and from the streets behind.

The living race against the undead in a sick rendition of the tortoise verses the hare. The humans have to stop to pick up the elderly woman, who has fallen out of the wheelchair; others have fallen on the debris or cannot move quickly and need to be helped down the street. What started out as a decent pace has slowed to nearly a crawl when they come to the first sandbag wall two blocks away. The slow and steady ghouls keep moving as the group helps each other over the obstacle. It must be the smell of fresh meat that brings the undead out into the street in such numbers. The refugees are on the cusp of being engulfed by the rolling wave of creatures that fill the road behind them.

That’s when the soldiers open fire. The entire time this group is running, the shots continue to ring out in other directions, so it isn’t the sound of guns that alerts me to the massacre that is about to happen. Instead, I see one of the men helping lift the wheelchair over the sandbags go down as his leg is shredded by gunfire. He screams and clutches his leg as the person next to him is hit in the foot. The people freeze, their eyes sweeping back and forth looking for what is causing this. They realize far too late and cannot gain cover. The bullets tear through the group. The troops are aiming low, trying to disable the civilians. The wave of undead inches closer.
I stand above frozen in horror. I cannot believe what I am seeing. The troops continue to disable to group. It is obvious what they were planning when the first undead dives into toward a helpless woman to feed. His head leans down to bite, and he is shot in the head. The soldiers used the civilians as bait, and the ghouls will now pause to feed on the closer meal. The soldiers ease the pressure on the front line and easily take out a large group. It makes sense, but I am horrified nonetheless. I look back to my counterpart across the valley of buildings and he is still shaking his head.

My knees start to weaken. I feel the adrenaline drain away and I slump against the wall. I turn away and hobble back to my room. I want to take my tire iron and run down break the heads of the soldiers below, but know that my fate would be like those who tried to come to them for salvation. No. I realize that my path home has two obstacles, and the thought is so overwhelming that I nearly faint with despair. Then I realize it is almost certainly the lack of blood that makes me woozy. I walk into my office and close the door. I dig through my bag for my earplugs to try to drown out the sound of gunfire. But nothing will ever quiet the screams of those people. That will ring in my ears for years to come…

The Tower of Juice

2007-11-14T15:40:00.000-06:00

"Juice," he called me. What a dick.

Of course, six years ago, that would have been true. At a time like this, I find myself wishing I was still using. It's not that I'm not still strong. I've always been a large man, but the strength of a large man pales in comparison to that of a large man who's time is devoted to growing stronger.

My eyes flash down across the palms of my hands. There used to be thick calluses from far too many repetitions with heavy metal bars. Now, the only things close to that are the slight points of wear from my fingertips mashing my keyboard. Not that I'm bitter about the change. I understand that I am healthier and lead a better life since trading weights for words, but being a powerlifter does prepare one better for physical conflict than writing about powerlifting.

My legs move me forward quickly. A short distance behind me, I can hear the chaotic chatter of my former bus-mates. Beyond that are the heavy thuds of what I can only hope are the now lifeless things that were attempting to use our bus as a canned meal. The more that guy takes out, the less there are trying to eat me out here. Further away are sirens, screams and other assorted sounds that one would associate with pandemonium. I scan the area for a building with no one exiting it. I figure that people will flee if something is trying to eat them, and these creatures will exit the building looking for food if everyone has fled. Either way, if no one is coming through the doors, it's probably my best bet.

Up the road a bit is a high rise that looks quiet, so I make for the revolving doors. I attract the attention of a couple of interested parties on my way in, and they try to follow. Luckily for me, they lack the ability to understand a machine even as simple as a revolving door. A well placed chair keep them jammed into their glass pie wedge prison cell. I can hear them banging away at it as I hit the button for the elevator. A friendly ding and the well polished door slides aside. The car is empty. I tap the button for the twenty-second floor. My Mom's birthday was on the twenty-second of last month. The door slides closed again. It cuts off the echoing banging from my friends at the front door, as if it was shushing them. Shhhhhhhud.
The car glides upward for a short while. Not surprisingly, no one is waiting to get on. Another ding and the door opens again.

I don't think this is my floor. A small lobby sits before me, and it looks like some people are waiting for an appointment. With me. I jam the button for whatever the hell floor my fingers make contact with and retreat to the back of the car. A thirty-something woman dressed in a long skirt, white blouse and buckets of her own blood stands just beyond the elevator's doorway. There are a few more people on the other side of the room in similar shape. Oh shit. Is this one of the blissfully antiquated elevators with the bumper on the door, or is it one of the inconveniently upgraded ones with the infra-red beams? I furiously mash the “Door Close” button. Over my clicking I can hear her bizarre steps coming closer. Two clacks from a high-heeled shoe on the tile, and one thump from her gnawed upon bare foot. This is taking far too long. She's right outside the door. I hear the motor snap to life and the door begins to close. My God it takes an eternity. I haven't seen anything move this slow since I tried to watch Seven Samurai. Of course, I would kill for a katana right now. She reaches out towards me and breaks the plane of the doorway. I lunge forward to knock her arms out of the way of the door.

Ding!
“Fuck.”

The IR sensor is tripped and the door rescinds its offer to help me escape this floor and swings back to the right. I am now face to face with this bitch who decided to get fake nails from Olga the Sadist. At least she's only as strong as a 120 pound woman. I slam her to the ground in the doorway and rush past. She jams those fucking nails through my pant leg and gashes open my left thigh. Just what I needed, a limp. I spot the door for the stairs to my right and head through it. It's dimly lit, and the reverberations of shuffling feet and groaning fill the stairwell. I can't tell which direction it's coming from, so I'll just have to take my chances. I know the ground isn't safe, and up seems like the way to go. Floor twenty-two. Bah. Maybe I should have remembered to send my Mom a birthday card. I start to scale the stairs as the creatures slam into the door I closed behind me. The cacophony of thunderous echoes they create gives me an instant headache. I scale around ten more floors as quickly as I can. I'm bleeding badly from my leg, and I need to stop somewhere to bandage it. My eyes spot a few listless shapes on the landing above me, so I head through the nearest door. I come out into a long and empty corridor. I start checking the doors. I'm ruling out any office door that is locked or damaged. The first door that opens belongs to some sort of insurance company. It's a heavy door with a strong looking lock, so it will be a good place to hole up.

I stumble into a nearby office. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and my leg hurts like hell. I trash the desk and am lucky enough to find a spare shirt and tie in one of the drawers. You can always count on insurance people to be prepared. I slump down next to the desk and begin tending my wound. I swear I can hear the bedlam from the streets below, but that can't be right. I'll have to investigate that once the noise of my heart pounding and my heavy breathing subside.

Skiddy

2007-11-09T11:55:00.000-06:00

Thank God! Thank God! Thank God! I made it to the Cat without problems. I am confident in my ability to outrun a zombie, but I have even more confidence in my new BFF killing machine I lovingly call “Skiddy”.

[And for a moment, I chuckle at a revised commercial starring me in jean bib overalls with a bowl haircut, on my tiptoes hugging a clean and smiling Thomas-The-Train-Like Caterpillar Skid Steer on a perfectly manicured lawn while a new song plays: “My Skiddy…my Skiddy…wherever I go, she goes…My Skiddy, my Skiddy….my Skiddy and me!”]

I’ve got to get to DuPont Road and I’m going to head straight to my parents’ house about 6 miles away. I haven’t even left my yard yet, but I am taking a moment to get the Cat’s controls down. It has been awhile since I drove it and, figuring it was a one-time deal, had put that knowledge in my mind's Recycle Bin. I test the lift and tilt of the bucket and the rotation of the tread. The tank-like movements are kind of startling and scary, but a cold comfort, nonetheless. It’s like a black toggle-stick and switch video game, but one that I somewhat take to. Funny that I loved Resident Evil...in reality this truly sucks.

The neighbors in the house to the south (the ones with the stockpile of non-working cars) are zombies, too; a middle aged man and his daughter who I peg to be about 16. They are drawn to the start-up of the diesel engine and slowly lurch from behind their garage while I practice the hydraulic controls in place. Then, when I have the maneuverability down, I move the Cat forward with an awkward jerking motion, tearing deep tracks into the yard-earth. I cautiously move in a slow direct line toward the zombie dad. His dead waggling fingers can’t reach through the cage. His body doesn’t stand a chance under the immense weight of the angry machine and he is pulled under.

[For a moment, I am a red-haired Ripley fighting the Alien Queen...]

I see the bursting of his large overfed stomach and the spewing forth of rotting entrail ribbons pop into the air like a party favor. Then I hear his dead skull crunch into the ground under the metal tracks. This makes me nauseous. The daughter is next. Living Dead Girl. I lift the bucket and the teeth fortuitously grab the length of her once elegant ballerina neck as her body is pulled under. Her head detaches like a dandelion top, as I don’t see it fall to the ground. It is probably grotesquely rolling around in my heroine-bucket. A few more decrepit middle aged zombies suddenly punctuate the yard. They don’t last. Skiddy needs a washing by this point. “It must be Skiddy's time of the month”, I madly muse to no one. Her pretty yellow coat is tarnished with brownish red filth.

And I think she loves it.

[I wish I had remembered to grab my cell phone – how stupid of me!]

My sister and Toby will no doubt be at Mom and Dad’s. I really feel drawn to protect that baby, as well as help out the rest of my family. Hopefully there is enough fuel in this thing, God please! I don’t know how much punch I can pack with a tire iron clutched by a body weakened with dehydration and hunger. I’m dying for a plate of dill pickles! When I get hungry, I get bitchy. I guess though, that there’s no better time to be bitchy. Bitchy, Skiddy and the Lord might keep me alive today – or a lovely combination of all three.

As you sow so shall you reap

2007-11-08T13:59:00.001-06:00

Edward Huron III, Esq. had a lot of things going for him. He was handsome, young, successful, rich, resourceful, and charming. He was in the seat of this 737 flying out of the nightmare of O’Hare airport and the Chicagoland area. He used every bit of cunning, resourcefulness, charm, and funds he had to get on this plane. Each piece got him only so far, but together with his adorable 11 month old son and his tale of woe, he was able to get that boarding pass and head to Las Vegas. His luck however, was about to run out.

---------------------------------------------

Tricia Huron, or Trish, had returned home from Starbucks aghast. Someone had bitten her outside the coffeehouse. She was sure it was a bum. She pushed him down and got into her pink Hummer, and drove the two blocks home, taking her baby out with her. Her husband had stayed home that day; he had gotten up a little late and heard that the roads in and out of Chicago were jammed. He decided to telecommute that day, and was upstairs on the laptop. She mentioned to him that she had been bitten, and he shrugged and told her to call the police. It was a typical Eddy answer. After bandaging her wound and putting her 11 month old down, she told Ed that she was going to lie down for a bit.

That evening when she woke as the living dead, Ed had no issue beating her to death with a marble rolling pin. In fact, he had been hearing more and more things about the infection all day, and this was something he knew was coming. Now it was a matter of getting out. His house was not some place that he wanted to stay, so he grabbed his child and every bit of cash and jewelry that he had, and left his wife’s broken body on the cold ceramic tile, under the granite countertop.

He got in his black Hummer and headed toward O’Hare. He knew that everyone would be there, but members of his firm had booked all the partners on a special flight. It would cost him, and he would have to sweet talk or bribe his way through security, but he would find a way.

The airport was so crowded that getting around was impossible with his Maclaren Leather stroller. He had to abandon it early and make his way to the gate. He bribed two security guards with surprisingly little money and jewelry, only $10,000 worth. The last security guard was more expensive, and he had to use his charm on her. It was really young Camden that changed her mind and let him through. She was a young single mother and felt compelled to help the little child, if not his handsome recently widowed father.

The checkpoints were unbelievably thorough. He had his son had the indignity of being strip searched 3 separate times, working their way deeper into the airport, closer to his gate. The officers were searching for any kind of bite or abrasion; several were turned away because of some imperfection. The money and jewelry was slowly running out, but he made it to the gate with a little left to spare.

He was in the back of the plane with his other colleagues. Most of them without their wives, and each one with a similar story. He held his son awkwardly. Admittedly, he spent very little time taking care of him. His wife was a stay at home mother, and they employed a nanny. His interaction with the baby was very infrequent. The child could not be quieted, or consoled. He cried and cried, Eddy was sure it was the plane getting ready to take off.

The jet was full of Chicago’s elite: business owners, stock market gurus, TV and movie celebrities, politicians, philanthropists, musicians, and the very rich. He was certainly a small fish on this ride. He saw the president of the options board, several Aldermen, some sports figures, even an “A” list actor on the flight. Somehow being around all these important people made him feel safer.

As the plane left the ground his son became more unruly. He tried all he could to keep him quiet. After a half an hour of pressurizing he seemed to calm and go to sleep.

While a great deal of factors played into his hand as he flew through the sky to Las Vegas, the karmic balance was slowly shifting the other way. His inexperience with his son and his placement in the cabin led to him getting bit. His son was breastfed by his mother earlier that day, and it took several hours for his son to become a creature. If someone was watching behind him, he might have had a chance to pull the child away from his neck, but his seat at the back of the plane made that impossible. The child only had 6 teeth, but there were enough to pierce his flesh.

The crew was alerted right away. The baby and he were taken to the back of the stewardess station and tied together. The pilots were informed, and in turn the military on the ground. Eddy actually thought that he might be able to get help once on the ground when he heard the captain say that two F-16 were coming to escort them to ground.

Eddy and the rest of the passengers were all alarmed, but none of them could have predicted the AIM-9 Sidewinders shot from the F-16’s. Everyone on the 737 died instantly.

My chimpanzee wears a flight suit

2007-11-03T22:31:00.000-06:00

We made it about halfway down the hall when we heard the screaming start. Sage, tied to the wheelchair, bloody glass held to his throat, tried to turn in the direction of the commotion, but winced and pulled back. The razor sharp glass sliced him shallowly but cleanly across his throat, tracing the direction of his turned head with a thin line of blood. I hurried the wheelchair down the hallway, neither of us talking, both of us knowing in the back of our minds what those screams meant. Silently, Sage pointed his way through the maze of corridors. I was running now, holding the glass only loosely in my hand and away from his throat as the sound of the screams grew more insistent. A bit out of breath, sweating with exertion and fear, we stood outside a door, next to which a small placard said simply, Nursery. I looked down at Sage, who nodded, but otherwise did not move.
“Turn the handle, Sage.” I said
He calmly reached forward, gripping the metallic handle and opening the door wide. I pushed the chair forward and entered the room.

It was a nursery unlike any I'd ever seen. When you think of a nursery, ones mind typically drifts to wall murals of puppies or smiling cartoon characters, of cheerful colors and toy boxes, diaper bins, and night lights. This nursery had none of these. In neat, military order, stood clear plastic bassinets atop bare metal stands with casters. There were dozens of them, in long perfect rows stretching down the length of the long, narrow room. Harsh fluorescent light saturated the room, exposing the pneumatic bank teller tubes that came down next to each of the bassinets. At the same time that I understood what I was seeing in the teller tubes, I also noticed the harsh metal grid that covered the top of each of bassinet. I had enough time to wonder why these people had turned the bassinets into cages, when I saw Finn.

It was clear that whoever had taken him had tried to make him comfortable, but it was equally clear that this “nursery” was not equipped for children nearing their first birthday. He was sleeping, apparently safe and sound, but was laying on a heap of blankets and towels surrounded by a stack of upturned clear plastic bassinets that were forming a ring and thus a make shift playpen around him. With a sense of relief greater than I had known possible, and far more visceral than I expected, I rushed toward him. Only as I bent to retrieve him did I notice that I was still clutching the shiv that had gotten me this far, and it was then that I realized that Sage was no longer under my control. Wide eyed, I swiveled around, half expecting the old man to be running for the door or inches away from me with murderous intent. Instead, he sat calmly in the wheelchair, smiling bemusedly at me, as if he couldn't understand my relief at finding my son intact. I looked at Sage for only another moment, then I reached out, and still keeping my eyes locked onto those of the old man, I set the shard down in the nearest empty bassinet. Then I turned away from him, bent down, and picked up my son.

He stirred a little when I picked him up, and his tiny moan of sleepy complaint reassured me of his basic safety once again. Clutching him, I turned to see Sage, still seated in the chair, gingerly exploring the shallow wound around his neck. Smiling, he said, “So, shall we collect your bride then?” and without another word rose nimbly from the chair and began toward the door. I had no choice but to follow.

Entering the hall jolted me out of the grateful reverie I had been feeling. I could hear a low steady humming sound that I at first took to be some enormous machine, but which I realized a moment later was a deep, throaty moaning that seemed to fill the corridors with the thrum of hungry, stupid, violence. Hurrying now, Sage and I raced further through the labyrinthine hallways, and I had to concentrate as I ran in order to read the signs that marked our progress. With some alarm, I noticed the words quarantine as we pushed first through one set of double doors, bursting into what looked to be a large showering room, and pushed almost immediately again through another heavy set of doors. We were now clearly in a hospital setting. The institutional paint on the walls, the large centrally located desk with a bank of monitors (only one of which was on, and on which was displayed a blinking alarm), and the steady monotonous beep of some impossible and necessary machines. The moaning had grown fainter as we ran, and we began to slow to a walk as we made our way through what was obviously the quarantine wing of what I was coming to realize was a very large compound. Sage paused for a moment before a door simply marked “recovery,” then turned the handle and entered the dark room.

From inside, I heard the thick grunt of someone exerting a mighty effort followed by a deafening crash. I rushed forward and threw open the door, Finn was now awake and began to scream. It was probably the sound of that cry that saved Sage from another kick, as he lay tightly curled on the floor against the wall, holding his right side. Colleen's foot was poised above his face and was ready to drop onto his face, but she didn't bring her foot crashing down. Instead she looked up at Finn and myself and began to weep even as she abandoned her attack and scrambled to her feet.

There was little time for a reunion however. Even as we held one another, Colleen now grasping Finn to her chest as if fearful he would disappear from her arms again, a middle aged woman followed by Hawthorne breathlessly dived into the room. I realized even as they turned to shut the door that I could hear that moaning again, now much louder and more insistent. If a sound that never changes pitch or tone could seem excited, this one did, somehow seeming to build in intensity as well as volume even as Hawthorne threw himself against the door and locked it, sliding with his back down the heavy wooden door with a sigh of obvious gratitude. Sage was wincing, but beginning to extricate himself from the metal food cart that he had crashed into on his ignominious crash to the floor. Looking around at the room we were in for the first time, I could see a cot that had been rigged with straps, a rather more normal hospital bed covered in what looked to be very old, but very serious blood stains, heavy duty ceiling mounted surgical lighting, a row of monitors, blood pressure cuffs and other assorted medical paraphernalia, and a large armoire. In short, it looked rather like a birthing suit at an advanced but not terribly hygienic hospital. I shuddered to think of what went on in this room that caused all of that blood, and caused whoever it was in charge of this place to deem it unnecessary or too dangerous to clean.

Even as my mind began to mull these things over however, the first of the pursuing undead thudded into the door, fingernails hungrily scraping and clawing at the thick wooden door with such vigor that I immediately began to fear that they may, given time, make some progress. A second later and the next ghoul sent a shudder through the door frame, colliding with all the force of its ravenous desire, then another, and another, each body sending vibrations through the door and floor, shaking small flakes of ceiling dust upon our heads, landing in our hair like drywall snowflakes. Impossibly, this continued for the better part of an hour. Sometimes there would be several minutes between new ghouls, sometimes only seconds or less. I counted at least fifty of them out there, each pressing against the next, clawing and scraping, and most horribly of all, moaning. Finn was screaming now, inconsolable even as he fed from Colleen in the farthest corner of the room. Without thinking, without saying a word to one another, Sage, Hawthorne, and the woman whose name I didn't yet know and I began to push, pull and slide every single thing we could move up against the door.

When there was literally nothing left to pile against the door, I looked at Sage. He looked back, still calm, but no longer wearing that infuriating “What, me worry?” half smile.
“I think,” I said, “it's time for an explanation.”

The old man nodded simply, and sat down indian-style on the linoleum. He motioned for me to join him, and I did, sitting across from him. The others sat too, and Colleen scooted from the back corner of the room, still fiercely clutching Finnegan. We formed a small circle, a band of six survivors, so far, of this madness. Clearing his throat, Sage began to speak.

“Of all the men and women who are part of this project, I'm the oldest. I've been living down here since I was born in 1947. I was part of the original experiment, at least that's what I've been able to gather. I don't remember any adults living here as part of the project I mean, not when I was a kid. There were fifteen of us then, and we lived here from the moment of our births, and for at least fourteen of us, until our deaths.” He looked significantly at the besieged door, and added, “and probably the fifteenth as well. Most of the others here are our offspring, our children if you can call them that, although we were never really their parents. None of us ever had any family other than good old Uncle Sam, and he sent his finest to do the dirty work, changing diapers every three hours like clockwork, and feeding and bathing us on a tidy schedule. I never found out if the project had a name, they didn't really talk to us about what was going on, but they talked about us, and around us enough to know that I was part of the alpha group, and I know enough of my greek alphabet to assume then that I was part of that first wave. You are sitting right now in what I think may be the largest underground city the world has ever constructed. I've been exploring it, mapping it really, in detail now for the better part of twenty years, and I still find a new passage every few months. This place is big, bigger than you can possibly imagine, and as far as I know, we're the only humans left. Make no mistake though, we're not alone.” He looked again at the door, “and I don't just mean them. You see, after World War II, Uncle Sam got it into his head that he needed test subjects, human test subjects, and lots of them. They weren't trying to build perfect soldiers or any of that crap, they just needed plenty of human material that they could experiment on, test new drugs, new gases, new viruses, new weapons, and sometimes all of these at once. That's where we came in. We were grown here you see. You've heard of test tube babies? Well we're the next logical step, only taken by Uncle Sam long before the private sector ever even dreamt of fertilizing the egg out of the womb. We are quite literally the product and property of the United States government, born as children of cold war hysteria and biological advances as questionable as any drummed up by the Fuhrer himself. Mostly, they weren't trying to grow full people, only parts that could be independently tested, experimented on, fucked with. A lung here to test the oxygen absorption rates of poisonous gases, an eye there to set maximum levels of radioactive exposure against soft tissue. We, the people, so to speak, were walking petri dishes, and nothing more. One by one, those that I knew, I guess you could call them my family, fell victim to an experiment that went too far, but not until enough of them was harvested for the next generation of human guinea pigs to be cloned. It was only a matter of time then until I met my own fate, called from my cell and led to my medically approved death. I was saved by the very thing that emptied this facility, by the accident.”

Sage trailed off, looking off into a past I could not imagine. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Colleen interrupted, the anger and fear in her voice cutting through the room, “I don't really think we have time for this right now. Does anyone know how the hell we're gonna get out of here, cuz I'm not sitting in this room with my baby waiting to die.”

Sage's eyes snapped back into gentle focus, “I think I know a way.”

Finding my Sea Legs

2007-10-29T15:11:00.001-06:00

Tom is alive.

I heard the man say that outside the door, but he is captive someplace and they are trying to test him for something… and he is fighting like hell.

Finn is not with him. Finn is not with me. My heart sinks, and I start to feel nauseous again, after all. They have taken my baby, and done something to me to make me sick, and now I am tied to a cot, nauseous, weak, and with a migraine the likes I’ve never felt before. They better not have hurt my child, or there will be hell to pay.

Beyond the throb of my head, and the swimming in my ears, I can hear shouts and voices from somewhere far away. Is that my Tom?

I start to work my legs to loosen the straps around my knees. Slow, methodical, isometric movements stretch the fabric that binds me.

I pray to someone I can’t name for his guidance and safety. I plead and I cry, and I wait. My breasts throb and swell with the unconsumed milk they have made for my son, and tears stream copiously down my face as I search for my strength reserves. How long have I been here? How long since Finn has eaten?

There is someone outside my door. She sounds upset. I think she is crying. Why would my captor be crying? She is not a hostage, I heard her talking to that man about Tom. I think I hear her walk away, but I can’t be sure.

The strap around my knees is loosened, and I start to work the one around my ankles.

I will not sit here and wait. I must get out. I must find Tom, and I MUST find my son. I will kill whoever took my son from us. with my hands. I will not flinch, and I will not waiver. It won’t be hard, and I won’t regret it. He is my blood, and my life, and I created him, and he is my responsibility. He is my everything, and I will not let him down, or I don’t know if I can live with myself.

Who the fuck are these people? As if the Zombies weren’t enough! Where am I, and why? What happened to me in that cornfield? Was I tranqued? Did they make me sick? Am I going to die?

They said Tom got in a fight, and I worry about his well being. I know he is tough. Strong, robust, and healthy. He has always had great strength and endurance, and I hope they serve him now. I hope they haven’t hurt him. I can’t live out there on my own. We’re Team Curry, and we need to get out of here together.

The fabric is slack around my ankles, and I am able to slip them through the strap. I arch my back and work at pulling my knees up to my chest to get them out, as well, but this is harder than it sounds. Every movement strikes searing pain into my head and back, and renews the feeling of impending vomit in the back of my throat.

I vomit, and I rest. I need a few moments to build up my strength so I can get out of these straps. With one giant push, I free my knees, and as I catch my breath, I start to scoot down on the cot to get my chest free of the strap that was thankfully, on top of my breasts, rather than under them. Thank God for small favors, right? If it didn’t hurt so much, I might have laughed.

I fall to the floor of the room. It is cold and feels like linoleum. My vision isn’t so good, and my glasses are missing. I scan for something I can use to cut the rope off of my hands.

I hear voices outside. There is no time for my hands. I crawl next to the cot near the door, and assume the position. IMPACT taught me to use my legs to their fullest. Sick or not, I am fighting for my life here, and someone’s groin is about to get the worst pounding of it’s life. I hope the mother fucker’s junk is severed.

The handle of the door starts to turn, and I see the blinding fluorescent light from outside. It’s go time.

h2o

2007-10-25T12:52:00.000-06:00

Mike knew they were nearly out of water. It was only a matter of time before they had to go out. He wanted to wait until the last minute. He tried to make sure that he had enough filled in buckets, but it hadn’t rained in a few days, and the supply that they had taken from the tap was dwindling. The taps had gone off shortly after the power, and the problem wasn’t with the building, the city ran a pumping station in the lake, and without power it was useless. He just wish he had some way to get water without leaving this building, or sending any his guys out. In any case, the decision to get more water had to come soon, or else people would start to dehydrate – then die. He had worked so hard to secure this place…

-----------

It was late afternoon when the panic struck the worksite. Mike was the foreman and saw the chaos unfold on the streets below. The building was evacuated a little after 1pm. Mike had seen enough to know that going outside was not a good idea. He gathered his crew together, 31 men working on the building.

“It’s fucked up out there, and I know a lot of you have families and want to leave. Any man that wants to walk out that door can do it. And you can take any of your tools with you. I just want to warn you, that your families may not be there when you get home. And as fucked as it is getting, you may never make it home. I don’t want to be a pessimist, I know a lot of you guys can take care of yourself, but we have a better chance to survive staying here and holing up. If you want to leave, do so, but we can’t promise that we will be able to let you in after you go. Anyone that is staying, meet me in the lowest level of this building in five minutes.”

None of the crew talked. The listened and waited until he was finished. When the five minutes was up only 14 of his crew remained. Mike had served in Gulf War I and was a natural leader. He utilized every man on his team at that moment. 3 of them left to get water and food. Everyone pitched in all they had and the three left to venture outside. They would buy what they could, and take whatever they had to. The others retreated to the second floor. His welders sealed the doors to the lower level. Any movement in or out had to be done from the sidewalk shield outside. The rest of his guys searched the building for anything that could be used. When the three came back from “shopping,” the ladder was lowered down into the street and then pulled back up. There was no way in or out.

Free people got the generators out, set buckets up to get all the water they could from the tap before it stopped, and continued to set up the building as a small fortress. A few people passing by asked to be let in, and were. But most of the people on the street had somewhere to go, and as far as Mike was concerned, it was probably to their early deaths.

Mike stopped his crew from communicating with the Marines when they came in. He knew they had a job to do, and when things started looking bad for them, he was glad he had dissuaded his men. The soldiers left in such a hurry, they left some of their own behind. There was no room for civilians. Mike and the construction crew from the East Wabash building knew they were alone here. The only thing they could do was hope for rain. And lots of it.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 6

2007-10-16T23:56:00.000-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Siege

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Third Principal >> Ron
Third Assumptions >> Male ; 18+ ; Widowed

Playback Source File >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0006

To sleep... A chance to dream.

2007-10-12T10:11:00.000-06:00

The ground shakes. I hear the megaphone outside.

A shrill almost mechanical voice shouts, “Come out of the pumping house. If you do not comply we will open fire.”

Gabe looks at me from by the controls. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from his face that he isn’t going anywhere. I shake my head and go towards the window. I pull up a pistol, break the window with the barrel and point it outside. I say nothing and pull the trigger four times in the direction of the Hummer below, then I drop the ground. Gabe continues to work the controls on the panel.

“We cannot let you leave the area. Come out with you’re hands up and the weapon visible.”

I respond by shooting out the window again, vaguely in their direction. I hear the pumps come on, and Gabe gives me a thumbs up. “You realize,” I say, “There is no way we can hold them off for the 20 minutes it’s going to take to lower the water.”

“You have a better idea?” His voice is shaking, he knows there is nothing else we can do.

“I’m not saying… I’m just saying…”

The air around us erupts. I can hear massive gunfire from outside. It thin steel that this shack is made out of is no match for armor piercing bullets. They fly around us and I can hear them zipping past. I lay as low as I can to the ground without sinking into it. I crawl to the back of the office, my stomach never leaves the floor.

I look back and see Gabe has been shot in the throat and chest. He convulses one last time as his body spews out his lifeblood. His eyes stay open, locked open in an unending stare. I have a strange feeling. I don’t mourn him as a person. I mourn his utility. I don’t care that he died, I just wanted him to live because he was useful. I am sad about him dying only in that his death could lead to mine. The thoughts are shocking and alien, and at the same time natural and instinctive.

I hear the gunfire die down and I stand up and fire the gun. I point it in the direction of the soldiers, but I know that I won’t hit them. I just want them to know that I am not only alive, but also that I don’t yield. I lay flat and reload. As soon as I finish I realize it is time to run for it. I can’t wait for the pump and I have to do the rest on foot. I run for the window on the opposite end of the shack. I start to climb halfway out the window when I hear a sound.

“shhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuummmmmmp..Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

I leap out the window and run. The shack behind me explodes in a way only though possible in Hollywood. I am blasted off my feet landing on my face. The debris files past as another explosion rocks the platform where the small pumping station once stood. It’s so powerful I feel the ground shake so hard, I doubt I could have stayed standing if I were on my feet. Another explosion…

***********************************************

I wake. My side is burning. My mouth is parched. My head and back hurt intensely. I try to stand and immediately fall from both severe dizziness and shooting pain in my shin.

“That went well…”

I hear an explosion from outside. The building shakes. I steady myself, grab my tire iron and force myself to stand. I lean heavily on the desk and walk to the door. I sling it open, and look out into my hall. No one is there, the lights are off and I can hear shouts.

I limp down the hall to my boss’s office. I come to the door and it is locked. I bash the handle a few times and it falls off. The door opens easily when nothing holds it in place. I step inside and see his windows are blown out. I can hear shouts and gunfire below on the street. I walk cautiously to the window and look out.

Hundreds of soldiers hold Wabash Avenue below. There are sandbags and tanks. They look as if they are shooting hundreds of undead as the walk toward the barricades on the street. The waves of undead crash against the sandbags, and the soldiers continue firing. The corpses pile up. I have no idea if they will succeed and looking out at the street below and seeing the long line of creatures, I am more doubtful.

But it looks like my only way out…

Sarah's Escape

2007-10-08T07:41:00.000-06:00

Turned Tables

2007-10-02T18:10:00.000-06:00

The tip of the long triangular glass shard pressed against the base of the woman's throat, indenting the soft flesh, my shaking hand tracing a tiny cut back and forth as the first drops of blood begin to slowly well up from the shallow wound. Dimly, I could hear the young woman's panicked breathing, just as I was vaguely aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled for enough air to calm her panic. My left forearm clamped tightly around the side of her neck, and I used as much pressure as I dared without choking her. Looking down at the hand that moments ago had punched its way through an observation window in the medical suite we now found ourselves in, the hand that, with its partner, had battered two members of this cult just hours earlier, I marveled at its effectiveness. My hand, already beginning to bleed from the press of the sharp glass against palm, knuckles grotesquely bruised, purple, and swollen, strips of thin pink flesh hanging limply in jagged tiger stripes from the tips of my fingers to the top of my elbow. Looking down at that great tool of our humanity, five fingers, a thumb, and, when necessary, a fist, I steadied my hand and my resolve. They took my wife. They took my son. If I had to take one or all of their lives to get them back, I was steadfastly determined to do so.

As we stood there, panting amid the upturned exam table, rolls of gauze and tape littering the floor, obscuring somewhere in their midst the syringe loaded with god knew what that had surely been meant for me, I considered my options. I didn't want to kill this woman, at least not yet. Over the past few days, my compunction about killing my fellow man had waned significantly, but I still didn't feel like a murderer inside. Besides, I needed this girl's heart to continue thumping in her chest for a least a while longer until I could figure out an angle and gain some real leverage in the situation.

I stood there thinking, the slim, older man who had accompanied this woman to the medical suite where I was locked, started to back slowly toward the door that led down the hallway. I locked eyes with him to let him know that I saw him, and he froze I realized that they must see me as a madman right now.I had hours earlier beaten two of them as badly as I was able until I realized they had taken Finn, and now I had another of their friends gasping for air with a shard of bloody window glass at her throat.Trying to regain some measure of sanity over an already insane situation, I looked hard at the man.

"Hey, buddy.What's your name?" The man started at the sound of my voice and I realized that I hadn't actually spoken until now.

"Your name buddy." I said, more forcefully and with growing anger, "What is your fucking NAME?” He gulped a bit, and stammered, "Hawthorne...what are you going to do to Ginger?"

I paused for a moment to calm down, then forced myself to speak as calmly and amiably as I could "I'm gonna kill her where we stand if you don't find a way to bring me my wife and my son, in one piece and in about two minutes Hawthorne." The girl, Ginger (I hated knowing her name) sobbed when she heard this, and I tightened my grip around her neck. Hawthorne stared stupidly at me for a moment, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. Then something in his eyes changed and he turned and ran down the hall. I heard his footsteps retreat as his shoes slapped the linoleum floor.

It's a long two minutes, holding a hostage. Not a lot to keep your thoughts at bay, and as each moment passes your mind oscillates wildly. You begin to wonder if you have the nerve to do this thing, to kill this person who has, reluctantly to be sure, protected you so far. You wonder if maybe you shouldn't just let go, make a break for it. Maybe kill the girl as a diversion. I tried to think of a story from the news or even a movie or television show where the hostage taker came out ahead. All that came to mind were murder suicides, police snipers, and swat teams. Not a lot of comforting thoughts.

I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I am annoyed and a little unnerved that they sound so...casual, the footsteps of a Sunday stroll. When Hawthorne steps into the room, it is with a renewed confidence. Behind him, an older man, bald with a short cropped white beard. He had the look of a modern-day Freud without the pipe or pretension. I distrusted him immediately. I was clearly the only one. Upon his arrival into the room, I could feel Ginger relax a little and her ragged breath turned into even, steady gasps. This was a development I wasn't expecting. Clearly, this man was in charge around here, and he showed no outward sign of concern over the sight of one of his (followers?) friends clutched back to belly with an apparent lunatic. I sensed immediately that he would try and defuse me, to talk me down as it were. I immediately sought to defuse myself and thus foil his gambit by remaining calm and steady.

Who are you?" I demanded, striving to keep my voice in check.

"My name is Sage," the man spoke calmly, evenly, "who are you?"

I debated about giving him my real name for a moment before I answered, "Tom. Where's my family, Sage?"

"They're safe, just like you are, and just like I know Ginger is. You're not a killer Tom; I know that. So why don't you just let Ginger go, and we'll talk about this." He sounded comfortable, confident, like a man who was used to having people follow his lead. I tried to disappoint him.

"Why don't we talk about this right now, with Ginger here?"

He sighed as if my answer upset him and looked down for a moment. In a flash, his head snapped back up and he had a pistol aimed at us. I felt Ginger tense, and before I could do more than tighten my grip on her neck and twist, he fired. Instead of the sharp report I expected, there was a soft whoosh of gas escaping at speed. That small defensive twist was all I needed however and the dart hit Ginger in the shoulder. Almost immediately, she began to sag. As she fell, I was forced down with her until she lay passed out propped against me, both our butts solidly on the cool linoleum floor. Her unconscious body formed a near perfect shield, but completely pinned me to the ground. Getting up and running was out of the question. I decided to force my hand. I held up the shard of glass, now sticky with my own blood, and showed it to Sage. Slowly, deliberately, I lowered the tip to her throat and started to push. Almost immediately, blood began to run from her neck. So far, I knew the wound was superficial at best, but it wouldn't take much of a slip to end this poor girl's life. This was a bluff, but I had to make it look real. I pressed harder and the first couple of millimeters of the makeshift blade disappeared into Ginger's flesh. The blood began to flow a little more freely. Although not the rhythmic spurt of an arterial gush, it was a steady stream of crimson now.

"All right, all right," said Sage wearily, "I'll take you to them. Just let Ginger go."

"No deal. The girl comes with me.I want a wheelchair and I want it now.I'm done playing games here."

Sage nodded to the tall man who ran a short way down the hall.In the moment he was gone, Sage and I stared at one another, each desperately trying to find weakness in the other. Soon enough, Hawthorne returned with the wheelchair and made as if to push it toward me. Realizing I couldn't maintain my position and move the unconscious girl into the chair, I settled on a new ploy.

"No. Sage, you get in the chair." Hawthorne made as if to protest but was waved off by Sage, who sighed another world-weary sigh and sat reluctantly in the chair. Hawthorne looked confused and terrified. "Okay, now Hawthorne, turn the chair around and wheel him, back first to me." He turned the wheelchair around and pushed it to about three feet in front of me. "Closer Hawthorne, all the way to my feet." He obeyed, but stood there unsure what to do next. "Okay, now you go out into the hallway and stay turned away from me. I want to see your back. If you so much as twitch, I'll kill both of them, so this is on you, get it?" He nodded and began walking into the hallway. When he got about a dozen paces into the hallway he stopped. Slowly, carefully, I stood up, letting Ginger go for the first time in an eternity. I stepped forward to the back of the chair. "Put your arms behind your back." He did as he was told, and I watched those arms fixedly as I knelt down, heart in my throat, and pulled a shoelace as quickly as I could from my shoe. I tied his hands together and put the shard of glass to a new throat. "Time for us to take a little walk Sage. I'll drive, you navigate.Take me to my wife."

Apart Again

2007-09-19T09:07:00.000-06:00

I am walking through a field of knee high grass with unbridled Goldenrod, Queen anne’s lace, and tiny purple flowers I cannot identify. The sun is high and he sky is the most perfect shade of blue with traces of fluffy white clouds on the horizon. It smells sweet, and I can hear birds chirping in the distance.

I am refreshed. I feel rested, calm, and peaceful. I realize I am watching myself stand there, as if I am God. I can see through my own eyes, and those of the sky. I am wearing a loose fitting, long dress and no shoes. I am pregnant, and I can feel the child inside of me swimming. It is a girl. My hair is long and softly blows in the wind, curling around my neck and shoulders.

Though I am alone, I do not feel lonely, or anxious. I do not know where I am, though that doesn’t seem to matter here. I am warm, comfortable, and happy. I don’t see any reason to question things that may disturb my nirvana. Ignorance is bliss here.

I wander through the open fields and see rabbits and squirrels frolicking and chittering. I see birds flying from the treetops on the horizon, and I enjoy the feel of the grass under my feet. The child within me swirls and swims a dazzling ballet, and my euphoric surroundings seem to stretch on for miles.

Without warning, I am doubled over, and the pain in my stomach is blinding. I cannot catch my breath, and I crumble to the ground with my hands on my stomach to protect the child that is now in danger from unseen forces.

I open my eyes to see a corn field around me, and a very rabid looking possum snarling at me. I am dirty, hot, and stinking. My stomach is revolting with cramps, and I quickly vomit in the direction of the angry possum, causing him to retreat. No sooner do I finish being sick, than I hear sounds in the corn around me.

In the moments that follow it becomes clear that I have become very ill. My head is spinning, and my eyes threaten to close. I am unable to stand, and am not sure if I am lying on the ground, or sitting up. There is no way I can defend myself from the walking dead in this state, and I desperately try to crawl away. However, sightless and pained, all I can do is wildly flail in place.

Over my labored breathing I think that I hear voices, but I can’t be sure. I try to force my eyes open, but am unable. I want to open them with my hands, but I realize that I cannot feel them. It’s as if I don’t have hands at all anymore. All I can feel is the searing, intense pain in my stomach, and a desperate longing to be asleep.

I can hear them coming for me as I lay there, and I am completely unable to defend myself. The violent retching is unstoppable, and my head pounds more loudly with each moment that passes. I feel as if death is upon me. I would beg for it if I could speak.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group of people come upon the sick woman in the corn field. She appears to be unconscious, save for the intermittent vomiting. She is about 30, and looks as if she has been homeless for days.

Leader, “This must be one of them. I don’t think she is alone. There will be others nearby. There is no way she made it this far alone.”

Person 1: “But is she military? Look at her boots and pants, they are military issue fatigues.” The fear in his voice was unmistakable.

Leader, “No, she would have been innoculated if she were military, and there would be many more of them. Let’s collect her and search for the others. She needs the drug as soon as possible, and her friends will soon.”

With that, two of the larger men scooped up the flacid woman, and carried her away. There were 4 left in the group, and they set off in the direction of Tom's camp.

_________________________________________________________________

When I open my eyes, I do not know where I am, but when I try to call out I learn that I cannot speak. I realize I am tied to a cot someplace dark, and give my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. I try to sit up but am prevented from doing so by a headache the rival to which I have never felt.

My stomach is cramping like I’ve never felt before, and I can taste vomit in my mouth. It is clear I have been very sick, but I feel no nausea now. My breathing is ragged and frenzied, as if I had just been running. I want to get up and get out of here, but I can do nothing but lay here and rest.

What about Finnegan? And Tom? Are they where I am? I don’t hear much, and am not sure how I got here, or why I don’t remember it.

I decide to take inventory of my person so that I am better equipped to deal with situation in the event that something changes. I am clothed, and strapped in to a cot of some kind by my chest, knees and feet. My hands are bound. I am under a blanket, and a pillow is under my head and knees. Who takes such care with the comfort of their captives?

What the fuck is going on here?!?!? There are fucking zombies running rampant everywhere, then I get deathly ill, and abducted without my knowledge and am strapped to a cot in some strange place? Truly, I am unsure how to cope with all this… or if I even can.

Just as I begin to panic, I hear a voice outside.

_____________________________________________________________________

A dark haired young woman sits at the end of a long, meagerly lit corridor reading Gray’s Anatomy with a furrowed brow. She appears to be guarding a doorway when she is approached by a bald man with a white beard.

“Hazel, how is our visitor?” asked Sage, the leader from the scouting group seen earlier.

Hazel replied, “She has been asleep since we administered the drug. I’m not sure, but I think she may be comatose. It’s only been 10 hours, though, so it’s too early to tell. Were there more, or was she alone?”

Sage let out a heavy sigh. “She has a husband, and a son. But they did not come easily. Who can blame them, the world has gone apeshit up there. I’m sure I wouldn’t be too keen on strangers telling me they had taken my wife and that I needed to follow them underground to a former military testing facility.

He beat the hell out of Saffron and Rue when they tried to take him. He only came peacefully when he realized Rosemary had taken the child amidst the chaos. He is angry, and desperate to see his wife, and who can blame him. Right now Ginger is trying to administer a sedative so that we can test to see if he and the child have also been exposed to the virus. He is being less than cooperative”

Hazel’s eyes were wide, “Will we give them the drug? We only have so much…” she trailed off.

Sage quickly replied, “There has been a vote, and it has been decided that they must stay here in the community if we use our resources to help them. We have yet to discuss any of this with him yet, but I think he may be more rational after the sedative, and he sees that we have not harmed his wife or child. He has little choice though, because his wife will be staying with us, having already been saved by the drug.”

“I’m sure the community will be pleased to have new members. I wonder what they know how to do, and how they will contribute. We could really use a medic or a carpenter. Even a gardener would be helpful.” Said Hazel.

A man runs down the hall, “Sage! We need your help. Our visitor has taken Ginger hostage and is threatening to harm her if he is not allowed to see his wife and son.”

“Apparently I am needed elsewhere,” Sage smiled at the look of abject horror on Hazel’s face, and followed the man down the hall the way he had come.

Running out of Options

2007-09-11T13:56:00.000-06:00

Fuck…Leaving Chicago is out of the question. I might have been able to make it out if I had just jumped out of a moving train, or if I had just fallen off the EL platform. Those two injuries have slowed me down considerably. However it was after I got shot that I decided to stay downtown.

I started running on the top of the platform toward the Chicago Board Options Exchange building. It was several blocks away at that point, but all the trains had stopped moving. I ran past two on the way. They were completely abandoned except for two cars. I tried to keep myself from looking inside, but the creatures within slammed themselves up against the doors so hard I thought they would break down instantly. They didn’t make it out, and neither did any survivors in those cards. There were 10 to 20 zombies in each. I tried not to notice the two little girls in the bloodstained dresses and pigtails. I failed.

It was bedlam on the ground and I was glad to be up on the tracks. Cars we smashing into things, groups of people were being chased down the street by the undead. I saw one creature standing at a stoplight. He was an obviously blind human at one point, you could tell by the thick sunglasses on his face. And that his hand was wrapped in a Seeing Eye dog’s harness. The thing is that the dog was still holding him back out of traffic as if it were trying to save him. The creature just kept on trying to cross the street and the dog kept pulling back to make sure it wouldn’t. The creature never tried to attack the dog at all. It didn’t even look like it noticed it. I’m not sure why I focused on that, but looking back it had to be the most absurd thing I had seen all day.

When I got to the CBOE I knew I was in for it. The line for the train was out into the courtyard. People were scrambling and pushing to try to get up to the trains. I scanned the crowd and saw a ton of injured people. Several looked like they had been bitten. The thought of riding home packed in a train car with basically several time bombs in the seats chilled me. I really had no other choice.

As I got to the EL platform I made my way to the exit. It was crowded with hopeful people. You’d be surprised how my wounded wrapped leg and a bloody tire iron get the crowd to part. When I got off the EL I noticed a commotion, people were running from the train and trampling those in front of them. I heard popping, it had to be gunfire. I quickly jumped up on the planter to get out of the way of the crowd and to see what was happening. The crowd was running from a group of police officers. A few people were laying on the ground shot. The cops had their guns out and they were taking aim at people in the crowd. I ducked when I saw them pointing and shooting, even though a gun wasn’t pointed in my direction.

The cops were clearing out the courtyard pretty well. I knew this was my chance to make it to the train. I started heading into the courtyard, and at first it was nigh impossible. But as more people fled, the more room there was to go upstream. I headed along the wall, trying to stay out of sight. I noticed two more people go down. I couldn’t tell what they were doing, but I assumed they were shooting obvious undead. I kept on the wall, and held the tire iron in my hand. My thought process was that I hadn’t seen any undead creature holding anything and this might not make me a target.

It wasn’t until I started moving across the open space toward the escalator that I realized one of the cops was tracking me. I also for that split second got to look at 4 bodies on the ground in front of me and I knew I had made a grave error in trying to run past. My brain put the pattern of what each of these bodies had in common before I even realized it. They were all injured, with bloodstained clothes. They had not changed. The cops were shooting anyone with a noticeable injury. And that’s when I felt it, the bullet when right through my stomach.

It didn’t knock me down, but it spun me sideways. It also hit on the side, a couple of inches from the edge of my body. I was so spiked with adrenaline I didn’t think, I just ran. Lizard brain took over and by tire iron bashed the window of the CBOE and I dove in. I kept running full bore through the building and out the other side. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was running to my office. Everything from when I got shot until I got to my building is a blur. I don’t remember a bit of it. I snapped out of it because it felt like my side was on fire, that I fractured my shin and my ribs were broken. I tried to apply pressure to the wound to get it to stop bleeding.

I ran into my building downstairs and climbed up the stairwell to my floor. That was the toughest set of stairs I have ever climbed. When I got to the 8th floor it was all I could do to not pass out. I stumbled into my office and no one was in. The lights were either off or out. I went to the kitchen and got the first aid kit off the wall and walked back to my office. When I was inside with the door shut I started to dress the wound as best I could. It looked as if he just clipped me, and the bullet went all the way out. But it hurt like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I had no idea if he pierced anything vital or not. It did not want to stop bleeding though. I dressed my leg too, and then pulled out my phone.

There was no signal. I figure that the cell towers were down, but I texted Sarah anyway. Hopefully it would keep trying until it got through. I didn’t tell her anything the happened. I couldn’t fit a good summary in 188 characters. What was I going to say?

Zombies. Bedlam down here. Jumped out of moving train to escape. Fought off several. Fell off EL platform. No trains out tonight. Been shot. Might die of blood loss. Hope I don’t. Love you. Cecil

I settled on something simple and un-alarming. No point in worrying her unnecessarily. I said.

I can’t make it home tonight. The trains aren’t running. I will have to be up here for a day or two. I will be home as soon as I can. Be careful. Stay inside. Love you greatly. Cecil

As soon as I finished my eyes were so heavy I could barely keep them open. I had enough energy to lock my door and crawl under my desk before I passed out.

The Spin Cycle

2007-09-07T06:28:00.000-06:00

Days ago, I heard moaning and quietly crept to the living room window, scaling the wall and gingerly peaking outside from behind the curtain. Then did the same in the kitchen. Swarms of black flies buzzed about in clouds. Dead walkers were slowly hunchbacking around the yard, plodding closer to my house with their outstretched limbs, stinking, rotting flesh. I counted a baker’s dozen.

[I would kill for a dozen Krispy Kremes right now. And I don’t even like them that much.]

I am sitting on a ragged plaid blanket under the basement stairs with my back against the cold cement wall, few provisions litter the floor around me. Tybs is curled up in my lap asleep. Peaches is purring and rubbing his head against my bare foot. As to not encourage them to meow, I don’t speak to them. All I can do is sit there in silence, listening for the moment when I hear Cecil’s keys jingling in the locked door above me. If that will ever happen. I think about where he might be. I wait hours in silence, hearing a distant moan every now and then. It begins to rain and the thunder softly booms. I am scared and vigilant, tired. But at the same time, bored as hell. I swish about in a maddening spin cycle of thoughts:

[“…and its hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain…”]
[“…blame it on the rain… rain that’s fallin, fallin…”]
[“…rainy days and Mondays always get meee dowwwwn…”]
[“…ohhhh, how I wish it would rain now… down on me…”]

[So sick of stale chips. So sick of stale chips. Stupid crinkly bag – makes such a loud noise when I want to eat. Announces my hunger like a crackling fire announcing heat.]

[Have to pee soon. Will go in the sump hole again. Sound of rain should drown it out. Must creep past basement windows without being seen. I did it before, I can do it again.]

[Pee. I want to be peeing out things that I have enjoyed: Lipton ice tea or good hot coffee…not room-temp bottled water. Which is almost gone. I might have to hit the wine soon...nah, can’t.]

[These human functions. Necessary. Designed for daily living, not under-the-basement-stairs living…I wonder if, after we die, if we ever feel the urge to pee or if we always feel empty like that as spirits? Do we just feel comfortably numb all the time?]

[Dear Lord, please keep Cecil and my family safe. I can handle me dying, I don’t think I could handle any of them dying. Watch over Abby and Toby, too. Sweet baby. I think you would understand if I had to kill myself rather than let myself turn into An Untruth. No greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend. Does this include taking one’s own life to...to possibly save another from a horrible death I might impart on them? Give us all strength, I humbly pray, God. Help me be strong. I need that. Amen]

[“…knock, knock, knockin on Heaven’s door….”]
[“To die, to sleep, perchance to dream…”]

[Should’ve brought my good pillow or two down here. This one’s too small and annoying. Red bouncy chenille throw pillow with a hole in it. Stupid thing to grab, but I couldn’t get too close to the window where the good pillows were or they’d see me…]

[“…rainy days and zombies always get meee dowwwwn…”]

My Nemesis

2007-09-05T08:48:00.001-06:00

General David Kohler sat at his table by the window. Below him the fort was alive. All his soldiers were doing their part to shore up the defenses around the small outpost to make sure it could withstand an assault. He sat in thought for many long moments, the decision he was about to make was not an easy one. The army of the dead was growing exponentially, the Midwest was getting overrun and something had to be done. “The Push” had failed; the calculated retreat wasn’t something that he agreed with. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he thought. His next thought was interrupted by the sound of keys and the door opening behind him.

“Good Morning General,” the soldier said to him.

“Lieutenant Thompson.” The general said as he saluted. The soldier set the tray down and saluted in return. “How have the advanced units done?”

“Poorly sir. It looks like they all may have been infected.”

“Damn. Did you tell the scientists to start removing all the alpha team from the cryogenic processor?”

“Yes Sir. We had them removed yesterday, they are still coming out of the thaw though and are a little out of it. We are hoping that they are back to full functionality by Tuesday.”

“Excellent. What of the west lines in Cincinnati?”

“Fallen Sir. They had to call a strategic retreat, they should be here by this morning. What are your orders?”

“I’ve been agonizing with it all night. I know that the project is still highly experimental, but I’ve been thinking of advancing with Nemesis system.”

The Lieutenants face recoiled in horror. “But sir! We can’t just let those creatures go unchecked. Its way too dangerous, even the scientists think it is uncontrollable. I mean it is the most advance cybernetic soldiers we have mixed with infected blood. They have been able to keep the infection to a minimum so far, but it is just too risky…”

“Damn it Thompson! Don’t you see that we have no other choice! We need to activate the Nemesis system right now. The Alpha team may not be ready for a few days. We can’t give Zed a few goddamn days! Now get down to the systems ops people and tell them to get on that right now.”

“Sir, yes Sir. But Sir, you haven’t been eating, please eat your breakfast and I’ll run to distribute your orders right away.” The Lieutenant saluted and spun on his heel. He banged on the metal door once and he heard the keys open the lock. He quickly stepped out while General sat in front of the tray of food.

“May God have mercy on my soul…” General Kohler trailed off as he started to force himself to eat.

***********************************************

Private First Class Thompson exited the room. His fellow guard Private Jarvis shook his head and locked the door behind him.

“Why the hell do you gotta fuck with him like that.” Jarvis said.

“What?”

“Every time you bring him a meal you’ve got to goad him into just spouting off that crazy Sci-Fi shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? I mean the guy is crazy as a shithouse rat, for fucks sake.”

“Hey man, if there was ever a bastard that deserved every bit of mental anguish, it’s that cock knocker in there.” Thompson replied as he shoved his thumb over his shoulder toward the locked door. “That asshole is the reason we lost Cincinnati. His fucking mental breakdown cost us about a hundred thousand lives. Fuck him.”

Jarvis just shook his head.

“Did you hear that shit though? You can’t tell me that it wasn’t funny. Nemesis? Alpha team? What the fuck. I mean, we may as well get Chuck fucking Norris here with his M-60 to take out all the Zeds.” At this, both the soldiers start laughing.

A break in the laughter and Thompson adds, “Chuck Norris once ate a whole cake before his friends could tell him there was a stripper in it.”

The laughing carries on. Jarvis then continues “Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris!”

The two privates pass the time like this for a while inside the mental health facility at the base. A facility that is slowly reaching capacity, as the siege wears on.

Somnolent Wishes

2007-09-02T22:54:00.000-06:00

I prefer my dreams to reality lately. In my dreams, I am nearly always powerful. In my dreams, I am ready and equipped. I dream of a competent, quick moving me. Like I said, I prefer my dreams to reality.
Colleen doesn’t know what happens when the men and women separate every morning. She has no idea that while the women gather and work, laboring together inside the camp, safe on the interior of the fences, digging latrines and building a tidy little infrastructure, we are taken outside for a different kind of work.
The trucks always come to the side of the camp furthest from where the women are working. No one actually told us not to tell the girls where we go or what we do all day, but no one has to. Even on the first day out, we knew something was wrong. As we civilians climbed into the camouflaged transports, a silence crashed onto us, rendering each of us still and mute. Not a man amongst us even looked up as the trucks bounced along. Heads down and silent, each of us recognized how truly alone we were at that moment.
We would eventually learn to look forward to those quiet rides in the transport trucks, moments of silence, no spouses to look into the eyes of, no hard eyed soldiers gripping guns like talismans.
They called it, “Bioreactive Containment and Disposal.” I never really got over the grand presumption of the military, finding such important sounding names for sorting the corpses, former military in one pile, usually smaller and fresher, the undead in another much larger and infinitely more fetid pile. The strongest, healthiest of us were usually handed a small four pound sledgehammer right out of the truck. I think this was why the grunts knew they didn’t need to tell any of us not to say anything. “How was your day today honey?” I could hear Colleen asking. “Oh, no big deal,” I would reply, “Spent the morning caving in the skulls of mostly dead soldiers and immobilized civilian zombies with a sledgehammer. Then we poured gas on the lot of them and gave them the Auschwitz treatment. Typical day at the office.”
Some days, if the skirmishes the night before were lower key, we would get a break from the gruesome task of ‘Bioreactive Containment and Disposal’ and we would reinforce the fences and other defenses that surrounded the camp. Twelve hours laboring in the sun, building and repairing fences and that felt like a vacation, anything not to feel the terrible weight of that sledgehammer in my hands. I asked one of the soldiers the first day if they called our work on the fence “Non Oxidative Metallic Structure Construction and Maintenance.” Without a smile, I was handed a large pair of bolt cutters. I decided to keep them.
And now I find myself here, in this cornfield, with what I can only assume is an overrun military camp behind me, an abandoned town in the middle of corn country nearby, and my infant son sleeping fitfully on my chest. Before we left camp, I dreamt of protecting Colleen and Finn. In my dream, I was armed and confident. Here, I’m exhausted and exposed, and my only defense for my family is a pair of bolt cutters. I close my eyes, and for the first time since I held it in my hands, I found myself wishing for that tiny sledgehammer. Colleen said she would take first shift. I only hope that the rustle the cornfields make will warn us if any of them show up.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 5

2007-08-28T15:53:00.000-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion III

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Extrication

Region >> Chicago,greater

Type >> Audio ; Voice
Delivery >> Messaging System

Primary Principal >> Chris
Primary Assumptions >> Male ; 20-40 ; caucasian ; Native
Secondary Principal >> Jen (alias:"Babe")

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Third Principal >> Ron
Third Assumptions >> Male ; 18+ ; Widowed

Source >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0005

Notes From A Rogue

2007-08-24T09:20:00.000-06:00

“For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

Ecclesiastes 1:18

The landmark lawsuit that cost PG&E millions as portrayed in the movie Erin Brockovich as well as the Enron scandal taught corporations all over the world the same big lesson: shred it ALL. Except that the rogue employees who smuggled out said evidence and information set an example for rogue employees all over the world: if it incriminates, it means leverage. And leverage means power. So, get the power before it reaches the shredder. For one employee –especially a lowly Junior Research Assistant—to be able to feel powerful against an entire corporation –well, that is a sexy, sexy thing. And thank you, Mr. Timberlake, I believe I will bring sexy back.

I work for Allergan, a global specialty pharmaceutical and medical device company that discovers, develops and commercializes innovative products for the ophthalmology, neurosciences, medical dermatology, medical aesthetics and other specialty markets. Headquartered in Irvine, California, if you care. You may have heard about their big stock split (symbol: AGN) on CNBC several weeks back or their innovations in the ways of biocompatible silicone breast implants. As of late the big thing is Botox®. Botox® is a drug made from a toxin produced by the bacterium Clostridium botulinum. It's the same toxin that causes a life-threatening type of food poisoning called botulism. The injection reduces the activity of the muscles that cause those frown lines between the brows to form over time –yes, these are the days when laughlines are actually frowned upon. How screwed up is that? Rich women everywhere can achieve that haute couture Stepford wives look in minutes.

As a female rogue employee of Allergan whose psychiatrist suggested journaling as therapy to get through the divorce, I once possessed the fatal flaw of having been walked on and cheated on for years, but, with help from therapy and meditation I finally grew a pair. So, I am proud to announce that I recently began cutting out the bullshit in my life – along with the worthless husband, I finally left the hypocrisy of the Catholic church for subjugating my gender and keeping me apart from the loving God they claim will strike me down for saying this —and for once in my damn life—feel powerful. This need for power is heating all aspects of my life like a stove on high to boil water. I feel it is my responsibility to disclose research notes that would counter indicate the effects of the Botox® injection, thus safety and side effects are a chief concern as it was not fully tested before FDA approval. If I leave this confidential information sitting out on the table in full view to other Allergan employees, I will be fired in a second, so until I can smuggle the report file out, this is for my own eyes only. I write this only for my own satisfaction, I guess. But I have to do it. I am obligated. I just need to plan the “attack”. Do I leak it to the media or go straight to the government? You’d think that’s like deciding which color of Jim Jones’s Kool Aid I should drink.

How do I know there are problems with the substance? In a non-technical nutshell, I was the recording researcher assigned to the project. Now, I know what shit has been going on in the news. I know that everywhere humans are dying and science fiction is becoming fact --reanimation and cannibalizing. And for a split-second there, I though God might be smiting the earth, but in the end, I attribute it to good old-fashioned human error. I know that the source of the outbreak is virtually impossible to trace, and as the subjects are hostile, the idea of further testing is bleak. Now, I’m not saying that the Botox® Initial Studies substance is the cause of this undead outbreak – I am just introducing the idea that this is a result of pharmaceutical roulette - that an undertested substance happened to be prematurely released to the public around the exact time when people began to eat...each other. The "convenience" is startling. It can’t be ruled out, but it can't be scientifically proven either. Either way, the public has a right to know.

In lab rats I tested with the Botox® injection, approximately 30 days following the injection, the rats acted increasingly violent toward one another. My supervisor attributed this to a batch of inbred rats which the lab had received from a new Utah supplier. The substance paralyzed the muscles where they should have been paralyzed. The stuff was doing what the developers hoped it would do for sagging faces everywhere. The muscle paralysis gripped and eventually faded when it should (after all, we can't have women NOT come back to buy a second round of injections). But the side effects left in its wake were eye-opening in these rats. I kept notes on the activities of these rats and on day 45 the rodents began gnawing off each other’s tender pink tails and feet to bloody stumps and infections were spreading. I went into the office of my supervisor and began to attest to problems stemming from side effects but he heard none of it, the bastard. He just condescendingly put up one hand, palm out, while still looking at his Los Angeles Times and said, “No. We have orders to keep going with this.” On day 49, he came into the lab and announced with a smile and a clap of his hands that they were going to move forward with the release of Botox® as the Christmas season was approaching and they had to get the press release over to Marketing, stat. I was really uneasy about it. So, in rogue fashion, I made a copy and filed the original report in a different cabinet under lock and key. I just need to make sure Jose the security guard temporarily turns off the lab hall and corridor cameras when I sneak back in to retrieve it. I will achieve this with the complimentary dime bag of pot (we are in California, after all). I think ----wait -----someone’s coming…will write more later.

R.

Giuliani for President

2007-08-21T21:48:00.000-06:00

When the medic, Rudolph Giuliani heard the commotion, and when he learned that Stonewall had been infected, he went straight to his commanding officer. “Major Rossdale, Stonewall has been infected, Sir, and we have to save him. We have the means, please allow me to administer the vaccine.”

Rossdale turned slowly, “I am aware of the situation, son. Just as you are aware we don’t have enough antigen to create vaccines for all of us. You know we will only administer the vaccine when there are only enough of us left to exhaust the supply.”

Giuliani spoke, “but sir, it’s Stonewall…”

“Goddamn it to hell, Giuli!” Rossdale interrupted, “don’t you think I know that? Do you think this is my choice? These are my orders, and I do not disobey orders!”

“Sir….” He seemed to lose his nerve, but thought better of it and started again, “Sir, maybe there is no one left but us, and no orders left to follow… I just don’t want to lose any more men, sir.”

Rossdale pursed his lips, and spoke more quietly now, but just as sternly. “Giuli, I am just as broken up by losing Turner and Hooch as you are, but that gate crashing lunatic got the better of us. But you know damn well that there were nine other bio-contamination containment experiment areas in the states, and those are just the ones we know about. I don’t want to lose Stonewall, either, son. So, unless you’re the fucking President, and you’re here to change my orders, I suggest you pray that the vaccine takes hold of him before the infection does.”

Giuliani looked as though he would argue, but Rossdale turned away and held up his hand to dismiss him, and to indicate that no further pleas would be tolerated.

Giuliani walked quickly away, and decided that orders or not, he was going to save his friend. That night, he snuck into the kitchen, where the antigen was kept, and he stole a vaccine module, and inserted it into a hypodermic. He went down the hall toward the gymnasium, and waited.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but no doubt would know it when he saw it. He heard screams coming from the gym, and heard Stonewall banging on the doors. It was uncharacteristic for him to break that way—he had known stonewall since basic, and he never once complained—ever. It was too much for Giuliani to stomach, hearing his friend yell out like that, and he decided he could no longer wait for Coop to take that smoke break to get in.

He walked down the hall, and said “Hey Coop. Remember that favor you owe me? I’m calling it in.”

Cooper looked startled, but said “Sure, Jewels, what’s up? What ya doin’ over here, anyway? I hope ‘yer not outta smokes, cuz I am, too. ‘Bout ready to gnaw off my arm for the nicotine under my finger nails,” he chuckled.

“No, coop, I need you to let me in there—I’m going to save Stonewall.” He said as he showed Cooper the needle.

“Jewels… I got my orders, man. Shit, Does Rossdale know you’re here?” and after a brief pause, “you know I want to help him, too, man. But I just can’t let you in there. It ain’t safe fer none of us if I do.”

They eyed each other, and each saw steady conviction in the other’s eyes. Cooper looked away and said, “Man, don’t make me do this… don’t make me report you…” but he was cut off midsentence by a blow to his stomach.

Giuliani had attacked him, and was hoping odds were good that Coop didn’t have the balls to shoot him. They yelled as they fought, Giuliani to silence Coop, and Coop to tip off the night watch that something was going down.

But after a short struggle they were on the ground, and Giuliani had taken Cooper’s gun from it’s holster, and pistol whipped him. Before the blood even spread to the ground, Giuli was at the door of the gymnasium.

As he opened it, he saw stonewall go into convulsions, and pass out. He knew he didn’t have much time, and as he bent to administer the vaccine, Stonewall’s eyes opened. At first he appeared dazed, but after a moment his pupils narrowed, and he extended an arm to Giuli. By the time Giuli realized Stonewall was already changed, and that arm was not the friendly gesture he had hoped, his teeth were already sinking into his arm.

He sat stunned, as the infection coursed through him, and within moments, before he could even scream, he became one of them. Ironically, he was still holding the vaccine in his hand when he changed.

Stonewall's Secrets

2007-08-21T21:47:00.000-06:00

Stonewall Brutus was not the type to break orders. Nor was he the type to fall asleep at his post. Since the mass infection (no one had the guts yet to call it an epidemic), no one from his unit had heard from their loved ones, and morale was really low. Last night’s poker game was the first time he had felt normal in weeks, and though he was tired, he wanted to enjoy the few meager moments of amnesia granted him.

He had been stationed in Pekin, Illinois to help with the bio-contamination containment experiment, when the shit started hitting the fan. One of the other experiment hubs must have failed, and not contacted the proper chain of command to be shut down, and all of a sudden there were infected everywhere. Of course, this was more confidential than who killed JFK. He couldn’t help but feel ashamed that fellow soldiers had made a mistake that might have caused this nightmare to come about, and he was going to work his tail off to make up for the shortcomings of those responsible few, once he got through the quarantine, anyway.

But the only emotion strong enough to overcome his sense of duty, responsibility, and shame, was grief. His mother was old. She was in a wheel chair, and though he couldn’t be sure, it could only be assumed that she was infected. Just the thought of her dragging her limp, lifeless legs behind her in search of food, or the low moans she would make to signal to the others that she had found food… it was enough to turn his blood to ice, and his stomach inside out. He hoped his brother had gotten there in time, he hoped that he had known it would have been humane to kill her in her sleep, but as the saying goes, ‘hope in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up faster.’

His Christian name was Cesar, Cesar Brutus—his mother had been an English teacher with a sense of humor. But since he was fourteen, even she called him Stonewall. Fact is, he was built like a brick shit house. Standing at six feet seven inches, pushing three hundred pounds, he had always stood out in a crowd. He had big shoulders, a washboard stomach, and a will stronger than all that combined. He had a hard body, solid will, and strong convictions, but he had soft eyes. His mother said it seemed he was built to be a soldier, and though she had her heart set on a college education, she wasn’t naïve enough to think her aspirations were going to keep him from his calling.

As he sat in quarantine, solitary and resentful, this was all he could think about. His mother, his orders, his imprudent poker game… anything but to think about the infection that was coursing through his veins. Luckily, he was a slow-changer, so they were able to help him. Most people changed within minutes, but when they realized he was bitten but not infected, they rushed him to the medical quadrant for the vaccine. They had used the antigen with success in Pekin but there wasn’t enough research yet to know if it worked, or to determine the proper dosage. Despite his size, they had to err on the side of caution—with so many unknown side effects, they didn’t want to kill him with the cure. He had only time now, forty eight hours with his thoughts in an empty gymnasium. Their research had concluded that slow changers take up to forty eight hours to complete the infection. He hoped the vaccine would work, but he wasn’t sure yet if he would be intact when his time was up.

Why had he stayed up to play poker? He knew why, and he knew his humanity was to blame for his weakness, and nothing more. But still, he was so ashamed to know that this was the reason he was infected. After a long night of Poker and moonshine, he had gotten little sleep before his day duties were to begin. Then after a long, exhaustingly hot day of digging latrines, he found that since Cagney and Lacey were still not back from the semi-trailer transport that crashed the gates a few days ago, he was on first watch. Not an ideal circumstance, but he had to do his part for his country, his camp, and himself. He was too proud to ask for reassignment, and this was his tragic flaw.

He had fallen asleep at his post, and though the watch tower had spotted the crawler in time, his timing was groggy and slowed, and he had been bitten. He’d been given the antigen within fifteen minutes, like they were supposed to, and he knew that protocol meant forty eight hours in quarantined lock-down, but he couldn’t help but feel let down and deserted by his friends and poker buddies. He knew it was for his own good, as well as the welfare of the camp. His mind wandered to the campers he was quarantined from—anything to keep his mind of his shame, or his mother.

He thought of the young mother with the cropped hair and her strawberry-blonde, infant son with the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. He had given her an old pair of fatigues and boots so she could help with the labor in the camp. He saw no reason why an able bodied woman should be resigned to dishes and childcare duties when she was willing to do so much more—and all that held her back was her clothing. He also respected that she wore her baby on a sling around her chest or back instead of leaving him in child care while she worked. It had to make the work harder, but she never complained. He always felt it was important to teach children the value of hard work, and that you couldn’t start early enough. It was for her sake he was in here. He scratched his beard and laid back, thinking it was probably time to try to sleep

He woke covered in his own sweat and blood, though he didn’t know where the blood was coming from. He was hot, sweating, and seemed to have lost control of his bladder. His head pounded, his eyes watered, and it took him a few minutes to remember where he was and why. He made his way to the steel doors; he was in trouble, and he knew they would need to document every moment of his case… his transformation? He hoped they would give him more of the vaccine, but since it was in short supply, that was quite unlikely. He banged and screamed with all his might, and waited. He knew they heard him, but there was no reply. He banged again, this time with the feracity of a cornered animal, with the same result. They were not coming… they were really not coming.

He thought he heard arguing from outside, but the sirens in his ears proved too difficult to translate through. He did not know how much time had gone by since he last banged on the door. He was cold now, his head still throbbed, and his eyes still watered, and he was still covered in blood, urine, and surprise-- feces. It occurred to him that suicide was the only dignified option at this point, but they had left him with no tools of that kind—surely for their own safety, in case he did change.

He felt more terrible than he thought possible, and knew death would come soon. Every aching, pounding, bleeding moment seemed to last for hours as he prayed for death to come. It shouldn’t be long now, it couldn’t be. He pled with himself, willing himself to let go before he was crushed by the impossibility of the pain. He went limp, and there were hundreds of tiny, colorful explosions under his eyelids as he felt his body quaking on the hard linoleum floor beneath him. He heard the sound of the door behind him opening, and more hollering, as he slipped out of consciousness.

Camp, Chaos, and Corn

2007-08-17T15:41:00.000-06:00

Tom had been having bad dreams for eight days, now. I think we were all starting to show signs of PTSD now that we were in the relative safety of the camp. Several times each night he seemed to wake with a fury, ready to fight. I never asked him what he dreamt about, it seemed obvious. I, too, was dreaming, but of my father. Each time the circumstances varied, but each time the message was the same—be ready to get out, you’re not safe yet. I was grateful he wasn’t alive to see all this.

The first 48 hours in camp were the roughest. But we soon learned that things were not as they seemed. After two days, almost to the hour, we were all lead back to an open encampment behind the school. There were probably 25 open air tents, and several areas designated for kitchen, firearms, etc, and it was all closed in by a fence. The camp was outdoors, and there were about 100 people already living there. The perimeter of the camp was set a quarter of a mile out from the fence on all sides, and guarded by men with guns, and dogs. At all hours we heard the static of radio communiqué of the guards checking in from their posts. There was even a makeshift watch tower.

All in all, we were relieved to see that life would not consist of an elementary school gym, and were pleased to assist in the cooking and upkeep of the camp. There were cold showers that we were allowed to take in 60 second increments twice per week. They let me have 15 seconds longer so I could wash Finn, as well. One kindly, older officer even gave me an extra pair of fatigues and shoes since my skirt and torn flip flops weren’t going to make it much longer. They gave me fabric scraps to make cloth diapers for Finn, and as long as I washed them daily, I had enough. The food wasn’t great, but the safety and comeraderie was. We made friends and settled in, not sure if were there to ‘wait out’ the threat, or to create a new, enclosed civilization.

The guards and officers kept their distance from us for the most part. Their sleep tents were at the opposite end of camp from us, and it was clear they were trying to maintain some secrecy. We didn’t ask, and they didn’t tell—a policy we were all familiar with. We learned to clean firearms, and took turns digging latrines, doing dishes, cooking, and helping out wherever needed. It was beginning to feel like home.

On our second day in the open air camp, another paddy wagon arrived. We saw another group unloaded, checked and quarantined for 48 hours. Then again on our fifth day, but this time something went wrong. The people had been transported in the back of a semi-trailer, which appeared to have hit the building, and when they opened the doors, zombies spilled from the cargo hold. It took under 30 minutes to contain the threat, and we were all grateful, if not morosely astonished at their efficiency. That night, the truck was loaded with the bodies of the slain undead, and driven away, not to be seen again. Tom seemed to be really affected by this, and his dreams were especially turbulent that night. No one could say it wasn’t nerve-racking, but then, no one said much about the incident at all. The air was heavy with grief, and the sudden reminder of what we had all survived before we got to this place.

On our eighth night, I awoke at my father’s insistence, he said it was time to go soon, and to be watchful. I woke Tom when I heard the commotion, and we listened to the lookout tower soldier hollering to one of the guards on his radio to retreat post haste, and we heard dogs and shots erupting like wildfire from our left. An automatic weapon was unloading, and it was soon joined by another and another—a chorus or machine fire filled our ears and chests as we waited, and the camp seemed to erupt into chaos. Campers were crying and huddled, fearing the worst. Tom and I sat quietly on our cots, hoping for a sign of what was to come. I wondered if it was really time for us to leave.

After about fifteen minutes of this, we were told in no uncertain terms by a very persuasive soldier that we were to remain in our tents, be quiet, and await further instruction. He told us there was a potential security breach, but that protocol was being followed and we would remain safe. We heard shouts that a soldier was compromised (bitten…?), and that he needed to be quarantined. We were surprised that he hadn’t already changed…and the rumors began circulating.

By dawn, we had ascertained that the soldier had been asleep at his post when the lookout saw the threat, and tried to rouse him over the radio. We weren’t sure if he was bitten or not, but we did know he was being held in the quarantine gym, so must have been exposed somehow. Despite the rumors, campers settled back in to their daily routines despite their bleary eyes and weary hearts.

The next night I woke again, my father urging me forward, telling me it was no longer safe. I know it’s crazy, but I could feel in my bones that he was right. Something was wrong here, and it was too damned quiet. I woke Tom, told him my feeling, and insisted that we needed to leave. He asked the practical questions, “How could we leave? Where would we go? What would we use to protect ourselves? and Are you out of your fucking mind?”. I had no answers, but I knew it was time.

The soldiers moved quickly, quietly, and with purpose, as the other campers lay sleeping. Once more we heard gunfire, but this time it was coming from the school. My heart sunk as I realized that the quarantine was broken, and there were zombies inside the camp. The solider must have been bitten last night, and now he would infect us all. We were under attack from an undisclosed, and soon to be exponentially endless number of zombies, and one hurried glance told me that Tom was ready to leave now, as well.

We grabbed our blankets, and I quickly tied the baby to my back with them, using a pillow to pad his back in case I fell, or ran into something. I was surprised to see a pair of bolt-cutters from the manual labor tent emerge from under tom’s pillow. He didn’t meet my eyes, I knew he was embarrassed to have shown me his fear, but now his precaution told us how we would get out.

The campers were starting to stir now, but we waited until the coast was clear, and cut through the fence. We couldn’t afford to travel in high numbers, and we didn’t want to be apprehended and forced back in by the soldiers. One glance behind me revealed that a few had seen us but stayed on their cots, as if their stillness would protect them from the legions of undead that would soon be upon them.

We crawled on our bellies and made our way slowly through the tall grass until we were past the unguarded perimeter. All the soldiers must be in the camp now, trying to save it. We could hear screams and destruction from behind us, but we dared not look back to see our new friends ripped asunder. We had seen enough carnage to last a lifetime.

And then we ran. We ran all night, stopping only for a minute or so every half hour to rest. I never knew I had it in me. I managed to nurse while jogging a few times to comfort Finn, and I was grateful for the pillow and blankets so I could keep my hands free to swat away branches and debris.

We were in the country somewhere, and as day broke, we approached a small deserted town. Where were the zombies? Or the people? How could there be none here at all? I saw my question reflected in Tom’s incredulous expression, and we moved slowly and stealthily through the thoroughfare, hoping to find a clue or some food.

We were both too frightened and weary to search the homes just now, but we did manage to gather up a splintered baseball bat, a box of paper towels, and a few large rocks. We took our bounty with us into the surrounding corn fields, and began to erect a shelter.

I always hated those survival shows, but had never been happier to have seen them! We used the bolt cutters and corn stalks to erect a shelter, and laid down one blanket to keep the bugs off the baby, and the other overhead for some shade. I found a nearly dry creek bed, and used the pillowcase to filter some water from the mud. We were surrounded by feed corn, which was hard but still edible, and we did out best to eat some of that. We used the paper towels to keep Finn’s bottom clean and dry, since it seemed diapers were a thing of the past. By mid afternoon we had made camp, and I volunteered to take first watch while Tom slept with Finn on his chest.

As I stood watch my mind began to drift:

What the hell was next?

Where were we, and how would we stay safe?

Where would we go from here?

What the hell happened to that town, and why was no one in it?

I wonder if we can find a car there…

God, I’m hungry…

And then I was sleeping.

Turning point

2007-08-17T12:07:00.000-06:00

The bite occured quickly, without Richard even realizing it. Thus is the nature of an emergency situation that in the thick of great terror a man can sustain a grievous injury and carry on, oblivious. When the shambling undead finally broke his door, richard had retreated, backpedaling out of desperation against his floor to ceiling office window, pinned against the glass. Richard was not a stupid man, not by a long shot. An actuary at a midsize reinsurance company, he had spent most of his adult life cooped up in an office, balancing risk versus premiums. He had, he realized too late, spent precious little time fighting hordes of marauding hungry corpses. His trained actuarial mind kicked in, quickly assessing the options, none of which looked particularly pleasant. He could, he thought, attempt to fight, but years of fine wine and fine meals had not left him the specimen of physical prowess. He had nowhere left to run, no weapons, no barriers. Doing the math between the unbearable agony of being ripped asunder by the cold dead hands and rotting teeth of his former city dwellers versus a long fall with a short stop from his office window, Richard made the only viable choice. Reaching forward toward the approaching horde, he grabbed a heavy lucite paper weight off of his desk. Hefting it, he swung the paperweight in a powerful, if rather ungraceful arc, bringing it crashing into the window. Initially, he thought nothing happened. Then a split second later, the glazing gave way and the entire window shattered, raining thousands of tiny glass safety pebbles upon him.

Richard turned, looking out the window at the expanse of nothing that lay below. He edged his way out to the precipice, the toes of his neatly polished shoes poking out into space. Even as he contemplated the gap before him, the first of the ghouls grabbed his suit coat. The pull shocked him out of his silent contemplation, and with no more hesitation, Richard's exquisitely trained mathematical mind turned immediately to survival. With a shrug, Richard sloughed the six hundred dollar jacket off, grabbed the window frame, and swung himself out, onto the ledge.

Gripping the edge of the window frame Richard edged as far as he was able, terrified to let go. The first thing he noticed out on the ledge was the wind, ferocious and cold, it threatened at every turn to hurl him off the ledge. The second thing he noticed were the hands and heads of the moaning horde poking fearlessly over the edge, grabbing at his hands and arms as he tried to stay anchored to the building, so many floors over the concrete that defined his ruined city. This must have been when he was bitten. Its the only thing that made sense, but Richard didn't feel it. He finally relinquished his grip from the window frame not from the pain of a ghoul's crushing jaw, but because the undead began trying to literally climb his gripping arms. Pulling free of their grasp was difficult, made even more so by his terror at being unmoored, kept on the side of the building by nothing other than his rather untrustworthy sense of balance. When he succeeded finally, in pulling himself free, he edged as quickly as he dared about six feet from the window frame.

Richard was only on the ledge a moment when the first ghoul fell silently from the window. Failing in their desperate unthinking need to recognize the inviolable laws of gravity and distance, they streamed from the window after Richard, each plummeting hundreds of feet to the unyielding pavement below. After only a few moments, the stream of undead stopped, the last one moaning slightly, reaching and clawing up at Richard even as he fell and ruptured on the pavement below. To his continued horror, Richard could see one of the zombies below dragging its ruined body with undoubtedly shattered arms across the pavement, still pursuing some ghastly meal, trailing its own organs behind its halved body. On shaking legs, whimpering, Richard edged slowly back to the windows edge, and crawled gratefully inside.

A few moments later, Richard jerked his head up, realizing dimly that he'd been staring at the wall opposite him, but not remembering why or for how long. He knew he should try to reach his wife, his kids, but even as he thought this, their names seemed to dance out of reach. Vaguely, he understood that he was beginning to drool, but before he could reach up to wipe his chin, his pupils expanded, and the world was painfully bathed in light. Moaning, he reached out, staggering forward. His precise, orderly actuarial mind was slipping, memories growing slowly harder and harder to reach. A moment later, Richard slowly, laboriously, tried to remember his name. Even as he tried to concentrate, his feet shuffled forward. He began to become aware, as if from a distance, that he had stopped shaking. A calm settled over his mind, erasing not only worries, but thoughts, and after the thoughts went, memories. With a blank mind the most studious Buddhist monk would envy, the thing
that used to be Richard became aware he was hungry.

Principals and Principles

2007-08-10T08:59:00.000-06:00

The creatures streamed down the hall of the school. Some were former children, others were unlucky teachers. They filed past the rooms on either side, heading for the people scurrying away. Some lockers in the hall were left open, their contents strewn about on the floor. The sprinklers had gone off earlier, and the residual water and garbage made every step sound like the undead were walking in a swamp. They shuffled silently, only making brief moans or grunts as they plodded after the living.

The children and the teacher were exhausted, there was no place safe to go. Three hours ago they called for the evacuation and when they did the halls filled up quickly. That also put the population of the school at risk. Several bites occurred in that minute or two. The creatures that were being contained in the principal’s office burst out, the principal now joined them, when the halls filled with bodies. The running and screaming set off the whole school, and panic set in. Children were trampled, teachers tried in to calm the students, but noting is as unnerving as your former principal tearing the throat out of the lunch lady. The hurt, were descended upon, the hidden were found, and the zombies grew in number.

This small group was in the computer lab until one of them sneezed, the whole group made a run for it out the other door when the undead started pounding the door down. Now Mr. Rasion and his “Web and the Media” class were on the run. Karl was not a brave person, and as the situation grew dimmer, he knew that the only real way out is to abandon the children. “Class, get in this room, I will lock you in and pull the creatures away from the door. I’ll circle back and get you.”

Karl had no intention of ever coming back, and some of the junior high students knew that. The protested and he used the last weapon in the arsenal to convince them – his teacher voice. If these were high school students, it wouldn’t have worked, but they were younger and more susceptible to this. They herded themselves in the room and he locked the door. The creatures at the end of the hall started streaming after him. He called to the children to stay away from the door and pretended to have trouble with the lock. His delay had the exact goal he was looking for, the zombies started to chase him, and then paused as their prey grew farther away and the children became an easier target.

Karl Rasion ran away from the door without looking back. The creatures pounded, the children screamed, and the safety glass was starting to break. It only took the creatures three minutes to break through the security glass and accidentally hit the handle for the door, and as it swung open the children screamed agian.

The creatures were making their way into the room when the last in the line was felled. The shovel connected perfectly with the back of its head, and the former Ms. Makerson, world and US history teacher, fell like a sack of mud. The young janitor Lukash Kazmierz burst into the room tearing into the group of undead. “Ocknąć się mi demony…” he said in his native Polish tongue, and he slaughtered every last one of them.

When the last one fell, he turned to the students, “Come with Lukash children,” he said in his thickly accented English. “We hide in steam boiler room with rest of pupils.” Not one of the students protested. He led them silently to the small room, opened the door quickly with his master key, and ushered them inside to safety.

Herd Behavior

2007-07-31T12:30:00.000-06:00

I do not excel at many things. It’s a fact that I think a lot of people deal with. I can do many things passably, and fewer well. I can cook well; I have a “good” sense of humor and can be funny at times; I can read a large book of cryptic philosophy and tell you the gist; and I can do many home improvement tasks with little help. I, however, would never claim that I excel in any of these areas. There are people without as much training as I that can cook far better. There some who can dissect Foucault more thoroughly than I can ever hope to. There are others who can construct a house with little more than a pair of pliers and a bent nail. As a human you come to realize your limitations, and understand your strengths. If you distill this thought process down enough you may come across what it means to be an adult. Knowing where you can excel and following it, and knowing where you can fail and avoiding those situations. In any case, I do excel at one thing: fencing.

Or more specifically re-enacting Renaissance swordplay. I’m very good at it. But I’m not good at just one-on-one competition, I can fight well against large groups. You see, we line up several fighters on each side and fight in large melees against one another. There can be 200 people on each side. I fit a small role whenever we fight in these melees, I am a flanker, or as my friends call me, “a fire and forget missile.” Whenever we fight together they just let me do my own thing, which is taking on large groups by myself. I run to engage the enemy and then fight as many as I can pull away from the group.

I don’t just run up and try to score a touch on a whole group at the same time. Instead, I try to make them see me as a threat and then pull off as many fighters as I can to come chase me. This leaves us with superior numbers and then I wait for my group to come help me. If I have to I can take out a number of fighters all by myself. There are some tactics that I use to help me do this:

• I make sure that I position my opponent in-between the other fighters and myself for as long as possible. This makes my immediate opponent an obstacle and gives me a short time to fight him one on one. I can win most fights one on one if given a few seconds.
• I use natural terrain as obstacles. I will try to fight around trees and brush if available to limit my contact with the group and fight individually.
• If the opportunity arises, I always take out the legs of an opponent. A downed opponent cannot chase you nearly as fast.
• Make sure to keep track of everyone. Don’t let anyone flank you.

There is more to it, but the other points only apply to thinking opponents.

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I slide down the pole quickly, only slowing myself so I don’t turn my ankle or something. When I hit the ground, I can see that they are only a foot or so out or reach. I run as fast as I can to get to the tire iron. It’s very dreamlike, I am leaning very far forward as my legs push me through the air. It feels like I a running in soup, my motions feel slow. It’s the adrenaline altering my perception, I know it, but I can’t make it go away. When I get to the weapon I snatch it off the ground and spin. I see that one or two had turned away from the bus, but they quickly give up chase and go back to pounding on the glass.

I jog quickly back toward them and see a few start to peel off the side. They are lumbering towards me quickly, but not too quick and I start to herd them. I begin to isolate the closest one, and quickly thrust the tip of the tire iron through its head. As he falls I position myself around the body. The others, four of them, keep coming forward, but don’t pay attention to their fallen comrade. The first stumbles over the body and presents the top of his head to me as it catches its balance. I club it and it falls lifeless to the ground. The pile gets larger as the others fall and stumble toward me. I retrieve more after this group is dispatched, and pull them toward the pile. When it gets too high for them to try to step over, they start to step around, and I quickly start to make a pile in another location. The process of pulling the creatures away from the bus takes about a minute and a half. They offer little resistance, and are easily isolated or tripped up.

When there are none in front of the door, the Rastafarian opens it up and begins to shepherd the people out of the bus. He takes out two that get too close to the running people but he never wavers and gets them all out safely, even Juice, who is last. The people scatter in all different directions. He asks me if I want the crowbar back and I tell him to keep it. The tire iron is longer, easier to wield and has a better point. We part as we hear all the sirens coming. I climb back up the el and pull out my cell phone. I typically get Sarah’s voice mail. She’s probably in surgery anyway. I hang up and head down the tracks. The train that was stopped before is still there. I wander past it and hear more shouts, screams, sirens and what can only be gunshots. I jog as quickly as I can down the tracks and head to the train station. I only hope that I can get out of this city by dusk…

To Hell With Protocol

2007-07-30T10:34:00.000-06:00

Taped to the locked door of Cecil and Sarah's house is a single scribbled note:

The TV recommended that civilians retreat to an upper level if possible.

Sarah was never good at following directions.

School Daze

2007-07-25T21:42:00.000-06:00

I know precisely what madness looks like. I can identify the impossible juxtaposition of the real and the unreal; I know the chaos. I know the smell, sweet like rotten flesh, and thick like the musk of a cornered and rabid animal, and you cannot help but breathe it in; in and out mechanically, inexorably drawing the fetid stench of raw death further and deeper into you. Soon, the chaos around you settles into your bones, it becomes you, propping you up; your very being dependent on it until you feel stretched thin and tight around it, flesh beating like some hellish drum across the face of insanity. Time slows, and pauses, but despite what they say, it never stops, eager to show you the next gory vignette. Here a woman huddled over her toddler, shielding his corpse as shuffling damnation slowly closes the last gap that will ever matter for her. Even when you try and look away, that moment burns, stays inside you, and even when you try to shake it, try to move your eyes, to shift, to run, you become awash, swept up and away into the next mad moment. Madness creeps into you, it drifts up into your brain like vapor, penetrating you even as the screams and moans of fear and rage and stupid, unthinking hunger bounce and echo off the same cheerfully colored cinderblock walls that once bounced and echoed the joyous shouts of children, children almost certainly now lost to a walking, grinding abomination. There is no way not to take in the screams of impossible agony and terror. Sounds of madness drift like a soft killing mist around you, and you are covered, blanketed in thick, wet woolen horror. I daresay, I know madness, and for a moment, maybe two, I was consumed by it, became it, and reveled in the terrible glory of awful and final knowing.

It was maybe two minutes, maybe less, that I stood stock still, dumbstruck as they poured in, filling the gymnasium like some cold writhing tsunami of rotting death. I watched, even as they moved further and further toward us; I watched as they cornered a woman and a terrified boy of no more than three (Did I know her? Maybe I did, earlier perhaps, even today. It seemed so long ago already). I was powerless, unable to move, rooted in the glossy wooden gym floor as one of them, a bald, fat man, obscenely naked except for a John Deere trucker hat and a terrible dry maroon gash in the fat of his prodigious belly, grabbed the child with his enormous, fat hands. I watched as the child was pulled and shaken, first screaming, then more terribly still, silent, an impossible tug of war between ghoul and mother. It takes so little time for a life to extinguish, quick as a candle flame.

I think it was the child’s flopping, lifeless head whipping back and forth that snapped me out of it. I blinked, and in a moment was back, present and accounted for, stranded in the center of the gym, Colleen holding Finn who was wailing. He was nearly impossible to hear over the din of slaughter and fear. I think my inaction saved us, or at least bought us the few moments we needed. As the dead piled through the door, everyone retreated, yelling and screaming, running to the sides and rear of the gymnasium, becoming trapped against locked doors and immobile walls. Standing in the heart of the carnage, we were almost invisible, unmoving. I looked forward, to the door they were still streaming into. A few feet back from the door, lay a dead soldier, and above him three of the politely, almost affectionately referred to “infected” crouched over his lifeless body feeding like lions on the savannah. Near him, unused, was his assault rifle, and on his belt, what looked to be a pretty serious pistol.

I turned to Colleen and, knowing it was the only way to guarantee she would not argue, I screamed at her, “Right fucking behind me! Not a foot, not a fucking foot away from me! Now!” and I took off running toward the dead soldier and toward the streaming masses of undead.

As I ran, I slowed for a moment and grabbed one of the aluminum and canvas cots. I braced it hard against my chest, crouched low, still running and slammed into the the feeding undead, feeling Colleen pounding along behind me.

The force of the impact sent the three sprawling from the corpse, and I fell, hard to the unforgiving gym floor. I tasted blood and felt a bit of a tooth and what I thought was the tip of my tongue swirling like a coppery stew in my mouth. There was no pain and I swallowed instinctively, pulling the broken bits of my mouth into my stomach. Crazily, I thought “Best fucking meal since we got here.” I scurried quickly on my hands and knees searching for the gun like a lifeline. I found it, and as soon as my hands closed around it, Colleen screamed.

I stood up, swinging the rifle as I came up and slamming the butt of the gun up under the chin of the zombie who had closed in on my wife and child. The impact shocked my hands, and I grimaced, struggling to keep hold of the rifle. The thing’s head snapped up, hard and fast, and its head seemed to lock at an unnatural angle. It went down like a tongue of bricks.

I looked around. They were coming in around us in a circle of gaping death, closing the gap to no more than ten or twelve feet in a ring around us. I looked down at the gun, flipped the safety off, and took aim.

Thankfully, the gun was not set to fully automatic, and I was able to shoot carefully. I shot and spun, shot and spun. I didn’t hit my target everytime, I won’t pretend I did. I was scared, but a strange calm had settled over me, and I started putting bullet after bullet into their stupid groaning skulls. One by one, they began to fall, forming a small wall of twice murdered corpses around us. Colleen was crouched with Finnegan, watching my back as I aimed, shot, aimed, and shot. When one of them got too close, she would tug on my pant leg, giving me the time to swivel around, aim, and shoot.

The ghouls had stopped coming in through the door, and after what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been ten minutes, the gymnasium was clear. Colleen and I stood, lone survivors in the center of a scene of such bloody wrath it would have seemed impossible in any but this mad new world we found ourselves in. I looked down at the dead soldier whose gun had saved our lives. Stooping, I closed his eyelids, then stripped him of two more clips, his pistol, and two clips for that. I tried to hand the pistol to Colleen, but she shook her head, eyes terrified, but clear, sane, and with perfect understanding. Without another word, we ran out, into the camp.

Everywhere, fires burned. A semi truck was crashed through the razor wire fencing, trailer open. Around us, we heard gunfire, small explosions, screams, and moans. Gesturing for Colleen to follow, we ran out of the camp, and into the fields of corn that seemed to stretch for miles.

Paddy Wagon Field Trip

2007-07-20T16:52:00.000-06:00

After Tom and I left in our neighbor’s car, we were almost immediately apprehended by some seriously disgruntled military folk, and loaded into a paddy wagon. Yes, a paddy wagon. We were in very close quarters with 8 other people who looked just as frightened and hesitant as I felt. No one spoke. I wondered if we were being quarantined, or led off to be killed. I felt like a prisoner of war, and the whole scene reminded me of Nazi prison camp movies. They weren’t answering questions, and we often just listened quietly as they fought and killed what we perceived to be huge numbers of zombies. If they failed, we would be sitting ducks in this locked wagon. At Tom’s insistence they grumpily gave me blanket and a few cloths to use as diapers for Finnegan. He had developed a hell of a diaper rash sitting in that nasty diaper during the trek form my van to my garage. They kept us there with no food and little water until nightfall, when be joined a military caravan heading to what they were calling the ‘safe camp’.

It took us hours to get there, and I’m not sure where we were, except that it was about an hour south of route 30. I got the impression they were taking the long way around and trying to complicate our route so we wouldn’t know where we were. The camp was in an old grade school. Something about the painted cinder-block walls brought me comfort.

Once we arrived at the camp, the uniformed officials explained that this is a holding facility, which is protected by the USMC. They told us we were survivors of a highly contagious mystery pandemic that was causing infected people to cannibalize other people, thus infecting their victims. They diplomatically avoided the word Zombie, and referred to them as ‘the infected’. The irony of propaganda and diplomacy at a time like this was ridiculous. They said we would be examined for contamination before we were allowed in, but that once admitted we would be given a bed, rations, and would be expected to contribute to the survival of the colony. Colony? This was getting sort of creepy... it reminded me of ‘28 days’ where the military nut jobs decided they needed to repopulate with a 13 year old girl.

But I think the word pandemic was what scared me most. I still held out hope that this was a local menace, to be contained and exterminated in a matter of weeks. After which I could get an insurance check for my house and start my family’s life all over again in a safely insulated, Starbucks-laden suburb. Was this to be a permanent shift in the survival of civilized life? What would become of our culture, values, and infrastructure? They wouldn’t answer any questions, and though unsettled, we were glad to be safe. Family units still clung to one another, though now there was a bit of chatter between the groups.

I looked around and guessed there were about 20 of us, and more than 100 uniforms. We didn’t stand a chance of rebelling, and let’s hope we wouldn’t have to. Next, they announced that the men were to be separated from the women for medical exams, and I was very distressed to be taken away from Tom. The look in his eyes as they lead the men out said so much... he was trying to be strong for me, but after being separated once, it was difficult to hide his fear that he wouldn’t see us again. He mouthed the words ‘I love you’ and just speaking them seemed to strengthen his resolve to be optimistic. He squared his shoulders and looked bravely ahead with his fists at his side as they lead the men inside. This moment had the opposite effect on me, and I melted into woeful sobs, tightly gripping my son to my chest. He looked so brave, and I hoped he wouldn’t have to be. The other women and children sobbed unabashedly, and the tension in the air seemed to rise in concert with our cries.

We were next lead to the 'medical wing' which was formerly a third grade classroom, and were told to strip down to our undergarments. It was strange to feel so vulnerable while surrounded by finger paintings and childhood masterpieces. The exams were humiliating but brief. There were no female officers, which seemed to heighten everyone’s wariness of the exam, and were put into a line to undergo partial exams from several different men. We were made to lay on a table and every inch of our bodies was looked over slowly and carefully for cuts and scrapes before passing us along to the next officer. They even parted our hair, checking our scalps for signs of infection. I couldn’t understand what they were looking for. All the zombies I had seen seemed to turn immediately. They checked Finn first, and he was quickly cleared for occupancy. My turn took longer. They lingered near my legs and feet which were torn up quite a bit from my trek in the woods. They took a long time checking them and cleaning them with iodine. I don’t know how they could tell if we were infected by just looking, but I suppose they were looking for bite marks. They were not gentle. The men wore rubber gloves, white coats, masks, guns, and goggles over their camoflaged fatigues.

We were examined out in the open in front of everyone, and even had to briefly remove our panties and bras. I refused at first, fearing their intentions, and wishing for Tom. I told them I would NOT submit to a pelvic exam. Thankfully, they only wanted to check for bite marks. I sarcastically asked if they knew anyone who had oral sex with a zombie and lived to tell about it. The officer coldly told me I could comply, or I would be coerced. I acquiesced to the rest of the humiliating exam while the elderly woman in front of me who had already finished her exam shivered and quietly cried while she did her best to comfort a distressed Finn. He seemed to take extra long moving my pubic hair about looking for wounds, and almost seemed to enjoy checking my butt, thighs, and breasts for marks. It took all I had not to spit in his face when he told me I was finished and could move on to the next man in the line. I won’t ever forget his face.

We were then allowed to dress and taken outside to be sniffed by the dogs. There must have been 20 German Shepherds out there, and we each prayed they wouldn’t bark at us. A few people were removed from the line and taken for ‘additional testing’, and their families roared with fear and grief—until they were taken as well. Little did we know we wouldn't see those people again. I could hear more dogs in the distance, and gunfire. I think they were being used to signal the arrival of more undead at the perimeter of the camp.

We were then reunited with the men who had undergone similar exams. Tom and I held each other in a wordless embrace that calmed my seething mind, and Finn abruptly stopped crying. We were then lead to men with clipboards who recorded our names, addresses, social security numbers, and a few other personal details before handing us all a bottle of water, a protein bar, and showing us into the gymnasium. Here we were told to find a cot with a scratchy pillow and a blanket for the night, and if nature called we were to use the buckets in the back of the gym. It wasn’t 4 star, but it was safe and we were together. Soon we were locked in, and we all did our best to sleep through the barking dogs, gunshots, and soft, muffled crying from the surrounding cots.

The next morning we were given water and some goopy oatmeal type stuff. It was flavorless and slimy, but it was food and I was glad to have it. We were told we could not go outside, but they brought in a basketball for the kids to play with, and the adults huddled in small groups, introducing themselves to one another and speculating on what was happening out there, and what was to happen to us. I expected to be given jobs to ‘aid the survival of the colony’ like they said yesterday, but we weren’t given any. Armed guards sat at the three entrances to the gym and we wondered if they were there to protect us, or to protect others from us. It was unbearably hot, and soon the gym smelled like body odor, feet, and open latrine gas.

I met a couple name Ava and Daneen. They were expecting a baby but hadn’t told the officers, and she wasn’t so pregnant yet that you could tell right away. I wondered which would be harder, protecting an unborn child like hers, or an infant like mine. He was a fireman with broad shoulders and a dark complexion, and he no doubt sought out Tom for being one of the stronger looking men of the group in case there was some kind of battle. She was sweet looking-- sable black hair with high cheekbones and full lips. They had been travelling from Park forest when apprehended, after being driven from the firehouse by zombies. He’d had to kill a lot of them, and agreed that their key vulnerability was their stupidity, and their strength was their numbers.

We were soon joined by two other couples and the same elderly woman who cared for Finn during my exam. Her name was Matilda, but went by Tilly, and she told me I was brave to have a mouth like that with those men. I disagreed that it was probably foolish to pick a fight just then, but like an animal, I bite when cornered. I thanked her for holding Finn and keeping him safe during my exam. I didn’t want to hand him over to them. They would have scared him mercilessly with their masks and goggles. Tilly’s kids were there, and they were also from old Matteson. I recognized the wife, Molly —she was a teller at my bank in her late-forties, and her husband, Scott, was a retired elementary school teacher. They were seized while out looking for their tween and teenage children, and were terrified to think that they may not see them again. The other couples names were Henry and Ramona. Henry was a pastor at a church in Richton Park, and Ramona was a homemaker who seemed the type to make just about anything from scratch. Perhaps it was just the circumstances, but they all seemed very picturesque.

We all speculated about how this started, and to an outside observer, we must have sounded like whacked-out conspiracy theorists. Some thought it was a virus, others a mutation, and others thought it was biological warfare from Al Quaeda. Some wondered if it was merely a disease with a very short incubation period. We were all able to agree that a swift, hard blow to the head seemed to kill them, but short of that they were impervious to pain, injury, or fear.

The guards would patrol the gym every couple of hours. Twice while Finn was asleep they would ask how long he had been down, and if that was normal. They even seemed apprehensive when I breastfed him. I pretended not to notice their vigilance, and I wondered why on Earth they would be so concerned with such a tiny little boy. He can barely crawl.

By the end of the first night we were all sitting in groups playing word games, telling stories, and smiling as if we were old friends on a camping trip, instead of zombie-killing-vigilante-hostages being held at gunpoint in a school gym with dogs barking outside to hunt the undead.

Before bed, Henry and Ramona lead us in prayer. Even in this climate of primitive fear, and dire circumstances, I could not bring myself to believe. This unsettled me more, as I had nothing for comfort, and right now nothing looked more bleak than our future in this camp. Feeling isolated and uncertain, Tom and I went to bed, and I took Finn onto my cot.

I dreamt of my dad. He told me we weren’t safe yet.... he held my son and told me to be vigilant, that the time for rest was not here yet. I awoke to find Tom watching me sleep, reached for his hand, and joined the choir of muffled cries as I listened to the dogs and gunshots in the distance.

Archive 7o-553-d >> Entry 4

2007-07-19T19:20:00.000-06:00

Record Logging Protocol : Epsilon
Record # 7o-553-d
Chrono : Suffusion II

Descriptor : Communique
Classification : Debriefing

Secondary Assumptions >> Female ; 20-40 ;

Involved(primary,shared residence)

Source >> 7o-553-d_AR_0+0004

Project Lazarus

2007-07-19T14:51:00.000-06:00

A brown envelope sits on the desk. It is addressed to Colonel Marcus Scott, USMC and across the top it is sealed with tape that clearly designates the material inside as classified. The colonel opens the envelope with a deer antler letter opener, and sifts through the contents. A single report among the many catches his attention.

Project Lazarus

Report by:
Thomas J. Finklestien, M.D., Ph.D.,
Steven M. Burns, M.D., Ph.D.,
Kenneth F.D. Walker, M.D., Ph.D.,
Huan Gu Chan, M.B.B.S., B.D.S., B.Sc., M.D.
Juniata Gonzalez, M.B.B.S.B.S.C., F.R.A.N.Z.C.P.,
Christopher G.D. Harrison, M.B.B.S., F.R.A.N.Z.C.P, Ph.D.,
Amrita Vishanamatta, M.B.B.S.., B.Sc., Ph.D, M.D.
Luann M. Wilson, B.A., Ph.D., D.V.M

Summary: Our team experimented on death row prisoners from project Juliet (See lethal injection falsification records in appendix C.) When the Juliet subjects were removed from suspended animation they were given the virus. We used surplus subjects from project Darfur and Rwanda, as well as several “enemy combatants” from the current political conflict for targets.

Our initial experiments were very positive. We did not create the Lazarus virus, only tested its application for biological warfare. We were quite familiar with its make up, but did not know it as well as the creation team. The first several from the Juliet group reacted slowly. The virus took a few days to reach full infection. We found that lack of oxygenated blood to the brain decreased the time of infection exponentially. Several subjects took days to reach the “break point” under normal and optimal conditions. It was concluded that this virus would pair well with several conventional chemical weapons that limit oxygen levels.

The anaerobic nature of the virus made the destruction of an infected subject difficult, but not impossible. Severe cranial damage resulted in immediate or near immediate death. Also spinal injury was extremely effective, as well as electrocution. The virus completely deadened pain, and the use of most organs. Removal of the heart, liver, kidneys, and gastro intestinal tract did not disable those infected. The infected were anaerobic creatures so oxygen in any form was unnecessary.

The virus acts on neurosensors in the medulla oblongata that trigger hostility and hunger. This gives the project Lazarus subjects their recognizable commonalties. The origin team worked hard to isolate certain parts of the brain that increased aggression exclusively toward human targets (only increased aggression toward humans). Our team found that this was the case in all the experiments. All other animal life and all other food substances are completely ignored. We tested the reactions of the infected with a range of animals, and the infected did not react. In fact, we even tested aggressive animals and even under attack, the infected did nothing. (All animals that punctured the skin and received a dose of the virus died quickly after, see the extensive study done by Dr. James Long, D.V.M on the subject)

The infected only ate human flesh, however, it was not a necessary component to their survival. They would not eat infected flesh, but would eat untainted flesh if it were alive or dead or decomposing. They seem to prefer fresh or living flesh to any other source.

Of the 390 subjects from the three projects, 42 were naturally immune. They are currently being tested for antivirus possibilities. We tested these subjects extensively, although only half of these subjects remain, as we had killed the others trying to increase the exposure to the virus.

More experiments will be conducted in Hanger 23 and 44 at Little Rock Air Force Base. We will resume tests in early June, when all the subjects and equipment are transferred.

Bus Stop

2007-07-12T13:44:00.000-06:00

The boat sways. I stand on the deck, looking out. I can see a large fire in the distance. Not a house… It looks like a whole town on fire. The river is full of boats, as far as the eye can see. There is a great deal of smoke, but the pilot lights can be seen through the dense haze. Shouts can be heard in the distance. The boats communicate with one another as they all head down river. Some are going faster than we are, the wakes they produce rock our boat back and forth. I hear the moans coming from the bridge above. The pilot points as the zombies plummet off the side of the bridge. They fall as he weaves through them. An undead creature hitting our boat from that height would surely destroy the vessel. He guns the engine and we make it through just as one hits the water directly behind us. It is dragged below the surface and the water quickly turns red around the propeller. A boat behind us tries to squeeze past the bridge. It is a much bigger boat and a larger target. It is hit by two creatures. The zombies don’t do too much damage because it is much taller and the undead fell a much shorter distance. The crew is on them and the screams from the boat saturate the night. The boat passes us, we are in its wake and the rocking intensifies. The screams, however, sound as if they are coming from below deck. The boat rocks. The screams continue.

I shoot up with a start. I quickly stand and snatch the crowbar. No one has followed me down. I’m on top of a bus and I suddenly remember what happened. I lost my balance up there when the bus crashed into the support for the El. The bus is moving from side to side, but we aren’t moving. I can hear screams below. I look over the edge and see them, what looks like twenty undead pushing the bus from side to side.

I try to assess the situation. All the creatures are in somewhat regular intervals around this damn thing, so there is no quick and safe way off of it. I see that the bus has torn apart two parked cars below on its way to the support. Both are literally shredded. I do see a nice size tire iron down there in the wreckage. I see that there is a light pole a few feet from the side of the bus. I could easily leap to is and slide down; I would be outside the reach of the zombies and could make a break for it. But I decide on a different course of action.

Most people in this situation would let their morality fly right out the window, and to be honest, my morals about possessions were thrown out on the tracks above. But I’ve always been a firm believer that you really don’t know how moral you are until you are tested. It is easy to be good in theory; it is always much harder in action. I must admit though, while the screams below did tug at my heart a little, it was cold logic that made my decision for me. If I run, I might save myself for now, but I could create 30 undead in the process. I am not leaving these people to die, I am signing them up for the other side if I flee. I need to get these people out of the bus.

I try to pull on the emergency hatch, but it won’t open from the outside. Emergency workers have a key for these hatches, I have a large metal device for prying things open. I use it and start to wrench it open. It pops up and then shrieks erupt from inside. I dodge a purse thrown at my head, and as I lean back in I duck away just as an umbrella shoots up trying to stab me in the face.

“Hey! I’m not a fuckin zombie! Knock that shit off!” I scream inside. Someone in the bus screams at them to stop. They calm momentarily.

The undead keep rocking the bus so I have to kneel to keep my balance and I stick my head back inside. The bus has several people inside; all are in the middle isle. No one is left in their seats. I see the bus driver is not moving, the front of the bus is destroyed, but the glass and metal is still intact enough to keep the creatures out momentarily. A few windows are shattered, and some are cracking with each smash at the hands of the ghouls. The creatures reach in, but can’t climb up the steep side of the bus through the windows. This will not be the case for long. One woman looks she is going to pass out. She’s a fat black woman and is hyperventilating. She sounds like a siren her breathing is so audible.

“Whooooooo, Whoooooo, Whooooooo, Lord Have Mercy! Whoooo, Whhooooo.”

The situation is rapidly deteriorating and I know what I need to do. I see a guy, a big fella who looks like O.J. Simpson a bit. I call to him, “Hey Juice,” he chuckles, “Take this crowbar, I am going to try to get them away from the door. When I do, you get everyone out and cover them.”

Juice shakes his head. “Not me man. If that door opens I am out of here.” As soon as he says that a smaller man starts moving toward me, he is a black man with dreadlocks. He looks Rastafarian. He has on a while linen shirt, and linen pants. He’s got a hemp necklace on and sandals. He is smaller in stature than the other guy, but wiry.

“I’ll do it mon. I can swing dat ting.” He takes the crowbar from me. “What are you gonna use mon?”

“I see a tire iron down there. I’ll get that and try to lure these damn things out of the way. If they turn toward you, swing for the fences and aim for the head. I’m going to get them from the back door because it doesn’t look like the front one works anymore, get ready to go out that one.”

“Ok, Mon. Good luck.”

I normally respond with some snarky comment when someone wishes me luck – this didn’t seem like the time to give my opinion on the existence of providence.

“Line the women and children up first. Get them out then the men go.” I point at the guy who refused the crowbar. “And Juice goes last.”

Juice starts to say something, but he is drown out by the Jamaican, “If he even tinks about goin out I’ll treat him like one a dem.”

“Take it to em.” I say. “I’ll meet you in the middle.”

I stand and look below at the wreckage where the tire iron is. A streetlight is near the bus, about 3 feet out. I need to jump to it and slide down. Then I’ll be on the other side of the undead but only by a few feet. Then I need to sprint 20 feet or so to get the weapon.

I lean over the side and see them snapping below. I decide to dress my wound on my leg. I take my hoodie off and cut it with the multi tool. I make a bandage over the shin and tie it tight. I can’t feel it. Adrenaline is filling my body. The effects are deadening my pain sensors.

I take one step back. “Here goes everything…” I can feel the rush of adrenaline inside me. My stomach knots up and my mouth goes dry as my digestive system shuts down. My legs are energized by the chemical. Time starts to go slowly. I leap.

Sarah's Will

2007-07-11T07:27:00.001-06:00

For a larger view of this Will, click here.

Garage Days

2007-07-09T22:17:00.000-06:00

I cannot pretend I wasn’t angry. I had camped out for a while on the roof of the garage looking for any sign of Colleen and Finn. That is, until I started coughing.
I couldn’t help it. The acrid fumes from the burning house were drifting toward me, covering me in thick, oily black smoke. I wondered vaguely which of my treasured belongs was being incinerated and spewed into the air, drifting onto me, covering my body, burning my eyes, and caking my lungs with what seemed like pure acid. Were these fumes the photos of my family; were they charred and vaporized bits of wedding gifts, or the ashen remains of the dogs I had yet to move out of the house before the fire began? Regardless, I could see through the smoke wandering figures moving through the neighborhood. They didn’t seem particularly interested in the burning house, but once I started coughing, they grew very interested indeed.
I tried to stop coughing, but sitting on the roof, the smoke was thick and heavy, and I couldn’t get away from it. Within a couple of minutes, there were six of them moaning and reaching for me up on the roof. A few moments later and there were a bakers dozen, all groping and clawing at the garage, as if they could climb straight up its walls by the sheer force of their indomitable hunger. I looked around frantically, still coughing, tears streaming from my burning eyes, hoping to find something other than the couple of crowbars I had grabbed earlier. I desperately began peeling off shingles from the rooftop and slinging them down at the creatures below. I must have thrown fifty of them when I noticed something. Not only was this a grossly ineffectual waste of time, but the ghouls didn’t even raise a hand to protect themselves. As shingle after shingle whizzed into their heads and faces, often opening wide, if not particularly devastating wounds on them, they quite literally didn’t blink. They just kept scratching and clawing upward in the same dead mechanical motion. Experimentally, I took my longest crowbar and held it loosely down toward the unruly mob. Although they pawed at my nearer arm with some renewed vigor, not one of them thought a moment to reach up and grab a hold of the steel bar that waived down at them. I lay on my belly, and reaching out as far as I dared, I swung the bar in a wide pendulum arc and crashed the steel of the crowbar into the skull of the nearest zombie. The horrid thing’s skull cracked with a sort of hard thud, and the old woman’s corpse unceremoniously fell to the pavement below. In a moment, another zombie filled in the gap left by the fallen monster and met the same fate. One by one, they came into striking range, and one by one, I crushed their skulls. It was easier and easier as their bodies built a grisly stepstool, bringing each of them closer and closer into the reach of my swinging steel.
As soon as they were dispatched, I jumped down and opened the garage ducking inside. As much as I wanted a better view to wait for Colleen and Finn, I needed to breathe, and no view was going to do Colleen any good if I was swarmed by hordes of the undead.
Amusingly, I wasn’t in the garage organizing my provisions much more than twenty minutes when I heard Colleen screaming and yelling. I opened the door. Over their shoulders, I saw what looked like the whole neighborhood shuffling and rumbling their way toward us. I nearly threw them inside and slammed the door shut. There was little time for celebration. I held my wife and son for only a few minutes, breathing in their scent, and crying softly in gratitude. Our reunion was interrupted a few moments later by the sound of their hands scratching and clawing insistently at the heavy garage door. It was impossible to tell how many were out there, but their sound grew louder and louder as more and more of them tried to scratch their way in. I knew we couldn’t stay here too much longer. Sooner or later, either they would get in or we would be forced out for food or water.
I handed Colleen a hatchet and a small crowbar. I had Excalibur tucked in my belt, a crowbar in one hand and a large shovel in the other. Hastily, I pushed the lawnmower over to the main door and turned it on, clamping a zip cord over the throttle to keep it going. I hoped the sound of the lawn mower would draw them to the front of the garage. Without waiting to see if it worked, I jumped onto a worktable and kicked out a boarded window in the rear of the garage.
Thankfully, there were no zombies immediately behind the garage. I climbed out, and Colleen followed, climbing out the window with some difficulty. Trying to stay as quiet as we could, I hopped my back fence, and again helped Colleen over. Staying low and quiet, we jogged quickly to the neighbors house.
I broke the window in the door, reached inside and unlocked the door without a moments hesitation. Funny how quickly we lose our social taboos in a crisis. We hurried into the dark and silent house, straining to hear the sound of undead footsteps above our frantic beating hearts and panicked breath. I heard nothing, but didn’t feel too reassured. Once I had checked each room of the house, I relaxed a little. In a small wooden box hanging above a coathook in the hallway, I found a neatly labeled display of what I assumed were spare keys, and including what I had been hoping for, car keys. Without a word, and with Finnegan strangely sleeping through it all, Colleen and I crept into the garage, got into the dark green SUV that waited for us there. Feeling safer, I backed out of the garage, pausing only briefly at my burned out shell of a home and the dozens of undead pawing and moaning at my garage door.
I thought we were in the clear, at least for a while, but as I turned onto route thirty, I was immediately forced to a stop. In front of me was what looked like a military blockade, and without a moments hesitation, three soldiers leveled their rifles at us in an unmistakable sign of hostility. Quickly, and not particularly kindly, we were forced out of the SUV. It looked like martial law had been affected, and it looked like we were stuck right in the middle of it all.

Fighting in Flip Flops

2007-07-01T18:01:00.000-06:00

Trudging forward, I notice the smell of burning gets stronger. It’s hard to see the smoke. It’s a cloudy night, but I’m sure it’s there. I just wish I knew which direction it was coming from. I’m only about a half a mile from home now, and Finn is finally sleeping quietly, tied to my chest in the Mei Tai. Thank God for small favors. There’s not much you can do to soothe a crying baby while fighting a zombie or running for your life. And his cries only call more of them.

When the van broke down, I cried for about 10 minutes before I could get a hold of myself. I was so adrenalized I couldn’t feel my body anymore. Everything seemed to tingle, and shake, and it was hard to catch my breath. I’m not sure if it was adrenaline, or panic. Maybe a little of both.

There were Zombies in the McDonalds. They couldn’t figure out how to get out, but they were in there, and they were not few. I finally decided that I couldn’t wait out the McZombies in my van. It was too far for me to go get gas, so I needed to walk home. I really didn’t want to leave my vehicle, but I didn’t have much choice. Sooner or later they would find me, and I don’t know how long I could hold out. You can’t exactly fortify a minivan.

I was so scared I threw up a couple of times while I was searching my vehicle for a suitable weapon. No such luck. I had my long ice scraper, and some bug spray. Not exactly ideal weapons for undead hand to hand combat. I just kept telling myself that I didn’t need to be stronger, I needed to be smarter and faster. I ditched the diaper bag and car seat, they were too bulky and rendered one arm useless. I still can’t believe I’m still alive, and I managed to protect Finn. Though I think he may be scarred for life, as little as he is. I hope he’s too small for that kind of damage.

I’m almost home, and am successfully evading zombies by climbing fences and skulking behind bushes and trees and the such. Tom will take care of us soon. He will have a plan. And he’d better have a really good fucking reason why he isn’t answering my calls. I will not even consider that he is hurt. He is strong, young, and determined. Above all, he is smart. If I’ve made it this far, I’m sure he has too. I’m wearing flimsy little $1 flip flops and a skirt- oh, and a 17 pound baby. Unencumbered, I’m sure he’s at home waiting to let us in, and ready with rations and a plan to survive.

I managed to run past the McZombies ok, but Finn started crying and more and more zombies started appearing from the businesses along the road. It soon became clear the main path was not the way to go. Outside the roller rink (I couldn’t fucking believe this) I had to fight a roller zombie. Roller blades on the undead are NOT helpful. Though they lack the agility to maneuver correctly, they can get moving pretty quickly downhill as long as they remain upright. When I saw him coming, I did a modified safe drop (to protect Finnegan) and did a side posture kick at his knee. I was hoping for a broken knee cap, but that didn’t happen. Though the heel is the strongest bone in the human body, it’s less effective when your target is on wheels. I did, however, knock him down, and I used my ice scraper to obliterate his eyes. Roller skates or not, if you can’t see me, I can get away.

So, after jetting past the roller zombie I came to the Richton Park police station. I hoped to break into a car, or steal a gun or something. But I don’t know how to break into or hotwire a car. I’ve only been trained on strategy by the movies. Where is my scrappy delinquent, or unlikely but funny black man to show me ghetto fabulous survival techniques? Anyway, I saw a few police zombies, but I thought it would be best to avoid them. They looked strong, and since I don't know how to fire a gun, I wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of acquiring one.

Since the streets were rather dense with the dead, I decided it was best to cut through residential areas. Old Plank Trail runs from just behind my house all the way to Joliet, and I hoped that would be a safe means to get home. There would be fewer brains in the forest preserve, and hopefully fewer zombies. I was hoping the laws of supply and demand were still in effect, since logic and reason seemed to be out of commission.

I was bleeding a lot along the side of my leg and hip from dropping and swivelling on the blacktop, and I was sure to have a beautifully bruised hip. My feet were bleeding too, from all the underbrush and rocks I was walking through. They didn’t seem to be able to smell me, which was a relief. I only encountered one other zombie on my way to the trail, and I was able to break her knee, use the bug spray in her eyes and run away. It was really hard not to scream as I fought her, because I was conditioned to scream and yell and make noise to help me find my strength in self defense class—and to attract attention. But right now, attention was the LAST thing I wanted. I threw up after the fight again. I was absolutely sick with nerves-- and it was hell to keep Finn quiet after each of these encounters. I gave him some Motrin before getting out of the van because that tends to make him drowsy, and I’m sure that is the only reason he’s not wailing right now.

After that last attack, something new inside me seemed to wake up. Though I was still pulsing with adrenaline, something more primal was beginning to emerge. It got easier to walk in these shitty flip flops, I grew more stealthy while walking in the woods, and all of my senses seemed to be on high alert—without all the puking. I could see zombies meandering about, and had it together enough to freeze and remain quiet until they passed, or to circumvent them entirely. I felt like a hunter, and I wasn’t so panicked anymore. I’m sure this is what helped me get this far.

I looked at my watch—a habit that seems ridiculous and out of place now, to see how long it had been since I last spoke to Tom. It’s approaching 11. We last spoke about 8:30, I think. That seems like days ago. I’m almost home, and I know he’s worried. I can’t wait to change my clothes, and get into some decent shoes. Eating and showering are on my list, too, but I don’t know how safe either of those things will be just yet, so my hopes aren’t too high. Bed sounds like a dream, and I know Finn is in serious need of a new diaper and some clean clothes.

As I round the bend of a side street only a few blocks from home I begin to realize the neighborhood is absolutely infested with Zombies. I recognized several of my neighbors milling about looking for lunch, and grew concerned that we wouldn’t be able to stay home long. It looks like the power is out, too. So much for waiting this out at home. I don’t know how we will transport the baby safely in the truck, and where the fuck do we have to go? I start to think about my mom and brother and sister, but I stop myself. Let’s just get through one obstacle at a time.

The crackling of the fire becomes clear, and the smell of the smoke becomes stronger. There are no fire engines, and this fire has clearly been at it a while. Looks like law enforcement as we know it is also out of commission. I have to get home and call my family asap, before the cell phone lines go down, too. For all I know, they already have. Though my phone is on me, it’s turned off so I don’t alert anyone unsavory to my presence.

I am dodging zombies left and right through the bushes, and praying that Finn stays asleep long enough for me to get us to safety, and to Tom. I am amazed at how easy it is to stay hidden. I know zombies aren’t bright, but I’m not exactly trained in guerilla tactics either. As long as I don’t make any noise, I should be home in minutes. I will have serious problems, though, if I do reveal myself. There are dozens of them, and unless I can climb up the side of a house in these flip flops with a baby strapped to my belly, I’ll be toast.

Walking through my neighbors yard, I gasp, and I break out into a run. My house is on fire. Where is my husband? I run out in the open, temporarily surged with panic and grief, praying to a God I don’t believe in, begging for my husband to still be alive. By the time I realize I’ve jeopardized my position, it’s too late to hide myself. The zombies see me, and the moaning begins. I see Jennie, my crotchety old neighbor who walks the streets and tells you if your lawn is too long, and my heart sinks.

As I reach the house, I am yelling for Tom without even realizing it. I sob and I scream for him, as if the volume of my calls will bring him to me sooner. As the neighborhood beings to shamble in my direction, and the moaning begins to drown out my cries, my garage door flies open and Tom screams for me to get inside. He’s holding a shovel and a lantern and is very angry at me for making so much noise. I’ve never been more delighted to be in trouble in all my life. The baby is screaming as I duck under the slamming garage door, and tears run copiously down our faces as we hold each other in the most powerful embrace of our lives. Even if we die, we’re doing it as a family.