A friend, is both an asset and a burden. You don't want to worry about anyone but yourself. You don't want to ask anyone to check out a room, an empty car, a store because you know the risk. One slip up, on moment of letting your guard down, that's it for you. You'll be on the other team in a matter of hours. To worry about that happening to yourself is enough to make you crazy, add the worry of a friend’s safety can make you go over the edge. I don’t want to need anyone but I do, any survivor does, alone your chances aren’t very good.
Alone it’s scary.
I'll miss my friend. His bizarre combination of narcolepsy, sleep apnea and chronic snoring aside, I knew he had my back. Now it's just Ron and myself. I’m not sure there is a voice of reason between us. We are still making a run for the Gathering. They are broadcasting a few times a day usually beginning with some music then the news up date (nothing really new) and directions then ending the days broadcast with a Johnny Cash song. Always Johnny Cash.
January 23
We didn’t talk much today. Just tried to maneuver the clogged roads. Slow going. Skirted around Phoenix, increase in the number of undead as we got closer. We are both thinking about Dave and if he made the right choice. Do we stay together out of fear?
January 24
Flagstaff, Arizona
Met a fellow survivor today.
Sakura?
Ron and I were exploring a mostly looted store when from outside we heard the sound of running followed by the shuffling of feet. My heart was beating like a drum as I waited for the undead to come charging in. Crouched down behind a shelf I prayed that Ron didn’t make a sound. I could see he had his machete ready and was leaning against a shelf with a can of pears on its side near the edge. Someone ran past the window just as the can was falling, I dove and caught it before it hit the floor. A survivor was being chased by the undead. I took a peak and saw a petit girl in a plaid skirt, loose white socks and suit jacket turn making a stand at the half dozen undead that trailed behind her.
A Japanese school girl fighting the undead.
She didn’t see us, she was busy. Her emotional less face, all business, her attention on the undead. She moved with skill and grace, cutting down the undead with a katana. Where I’m as clumsy and graceless as a lumberjack, she was smooth, effortlessly hacking the undead. 100 pounds of pure and efficient killing machine; being a waif she couldn’t depend on brute force, she let angles and the blade do the work, attacking weak spots and joints. When they lunged at her she would dodge under their outstretched arms, those bone exposed hands closing on nothing but air. She would turn and cut them down. Making quick work of four, decapitating them with graceful movements she readied herself for the last two. She and the sword moved as one. It was an extension of her, part of her, all death.
One left.
Ron, ever the hero when there is a girl around, aimed his rifle and shot. The echo rang through the empty streets long after the last of the dead fell.
The school girl put her finger to her lips and in a heavy Japanese accent said, “Shhh quiet is best.”
She wiped the sword across the back of one of the bodies. Satisfied it was clean she sheathed her weapon then walked away pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her.
We followed. What else were we supposed to do?
She led us into a boarded up house where she was greeted by two small black and white Boston terriers.
I introduced us. She pointed to her nose saying, “Kawano Sakura-chan.” I take it that’s her name. She doesn’t speak very much English. Or as Ron put it “She don’t speak English good. Not like me and you eh?” Sadly, I don’t think he was being ironic.
She handed us each a baseball sized rice ball. Sakura pulled one out for herself and bit into one like an apple. For rice and seaweed it was pretty good. A good break from canned chili and corn. She showed us a two-liter empty bottle of pop full of uncooked rice. It’s a smart way to carry unprepared food. Something easy to prepare, easy to pack.
Through talking slowly (like that was going to help) and pantomime I gave her a pen and my notebook. Hopefully she can write her story down:
この男の人は私にペンと紙を渡した。彼は私に何か書いてもらいたいみたい。彼は綺麗に日焼けしていて、彼の友達はかなり焼けている。二人ともいい人達みたい。
私の名前は川野 桜。血液型はO型。日本の埼玉県秩父郡皆野商業高校の生徒。秩父郡は東京の北西にある。毎年3年生は北海道や沖縄に修学旅行に行くのだけど、今年は資金を集めてもっと凄い旅行になった。卒業生は嫉妬するんじゃないかしら。過去に一度ハワイに行ったことがあるって聞いたけど、今回の修学旅行に比べたらどうってことない。
ロサンゼルスのディズニーランド、夜のラスベガス、グランドキャニオンへの日帰り旅行。この事態が起きたのはラスベガス。パチンコ屋のネオンに比べたらどうってことないけど、エキサイティングな町。今はそんなにいいとは思えない。どこもかしこも死体で溢れてる。ホテルにもゾンビが一杯。町も安全ではない。帰り道は自分たちの身の安全を守りながらだった。
私の知る限り、クラスでも生き残ったのは私だけみたい。きっとそうだ。剣道部の子たちは質屋で見つけた剣で身を守っていた。ゾンビが一杯出てきて、私たちはすぐに散り散りになってしまった。一人でいると、車の中に残された犬を2匹見つけた。太陽が照りつける車の中に何日間か分からないけど閉じ込められて熱くなっていた。2匹の犬を神社の犬の像みたいに「コマ」と「カラシシ」って名付けた。この犬たちは生き残った人が嫌いで、誰かを発見すると私に教えてくれた。この子たちは私より先に腐った皮膚の匂いがわかるみたい。この子たちも、何かがおかしいと感じているみたいだった。危険が近づくと、吠えずに背中の毛を逆立てて、静かに唸って私に知らせてくれる。夜には私を温めてくれた。ホントにかわいい。
ゾンビの心臓を突き刺すのはあんまり効果がないことがすぐに分かった。それよりも脚を切ったり後ろから忍び寄ってアキレス腱を切る方が効果がある。腱がなくなるとゾンビは歩けなくなる。もちろん頭を切り落とすことが100％効果があるけれど。
ロサンゼルスに戻れたら、飛行機で家に帰れる。コマとカラを連れて帰れるといいのだけど。
この男の人２人（浅黒い人と日焼けした人）が私をレイプしようとしたら、股間を切ってやる。先週オートバイの集団から襲われそうになったときもそうした。日本からは何の連絡もない。でも頑張らなくちゃ。
(Editors translation)
This guy gave me a pen and paper so I think he wants me to write my story. He has a good tan while his friend is more sun burnt, both seems friendly.
My name is Sakura Kawano, my blood type is O. I am a student of Minano Commercial High School, Chichibu-gun, Saitama-ken, Japan. That’s North and west from Tokyo. Every year the senior class takes a trip, usually to Hokkaido or Okinawa. This year we raised enough money for an epic trip. This trip would have made senior classes jealous for years and years, I remember hearing one class once went to Hawaii but nothing like our trip.
Disneyland in Los Angeles, with a night in Las Vegas and a day trip to see the Grand Canyon. That’s where we were when all this started, Las Vegas. The neon lights of a pachinko parlour put Las Vegas to shame but it was exciting. Now it’s not so good there. Bodies everywhere. The hotels are full of those dead things, and the streets are not safe. We fought our way out, arming ourselves along the way.
As far as I know I’m the sole survivor of my class. I think so anyway. The members of the kendo club armed ourselves from swords we found in a pawn shop. There were just too many
of these devils, the group got separated and quickly we lost members. When I was all alone I found two dogs left in a car. They were so hot, locked there in the sun for I don’t know how many days. I named them Koma and Kara-shishi, after temple dog statues. They don’t like the undead and let me know when one is around. I think they can smell the rotten flesh before I can. They just seem to know that these things aren’t right. They don’t bark but the hair on their back stands up and they softly growl to let me know there is danger. At night they keep me warm. They are so cute.
I learnt quickly that stabbing the devils in the heart has little effect. They can be crippled by cutting their legs or if you sneak up behind and cut the Achilles heel, when those tendons go they can’t walk. Of course taking their head is the most 100% effective method.
If I can make it back to Los Angeles I can fly back home. I hope they let me bring Koma and Kara.
If these guys try to rape me (the tanned one and the sun burnt one) I’ll cut their cocks off. That’s what happened when a motorcycle gang tried last week. I have heard no news from Japan, but I have to try my best.
Okay, her writing skills are on par with her English. I have no idea what the hell she wrote. I know it’s longer than a haiku.
From what I can tell from her broken English, she was in Vegas and is trying to get to L.A. She keeps saying those names. She can handle herself with a sword but her sense of direction sucks. I don’t think she knows she has been going the wrong way. I can’t even imagine what L.A. would be like now. No way would I head there.
With the language barrier it took us awhile to convince Sakura the right way to go. She folded her arms in front of her and pouted for a while.
When she had enough of that she showed us the best places to cut to slow these things down or kill them in their tracks. Using her sheathed sword she tapped us in the areas vulnerable to attack. She calls the undead, “Oni.” And that they are “Dame.” Japanese for zombie?
With a crisp bow, Sakura walked down the street pulling her suitcase behind her, the two Boston terriers trailing behind. She was heading the wrong way, south towards Phoenix Down highway 17.
I ran after her. She might be able to fight and has looked after herself this long but wandering aimlessly will only get her killed. She wouldn’t come with us. Nothing we could do or say would convince her. Her sword would be handy but it’s not like we want her to tag along, we just didn’t want her walking into a death trap. She was determined to get to L.A, as stubborn as Dave was to get home. I showed her the flyer but she just shook her head. Single-minded, as she is to go to L.A, the only option was to hot wire a car. Give her a chance on her own. She picked a little Fiat. Italian? Really? To say Sakura didn’t know how to drive would be an understatement. She sideswiped half a block of parked cars. Doesn’t matter, there is no one left to make the insurance claims. Ron put his hands to his head as she clipped a classic Mustang, that bastion on American muscle cars hit by a mere Fiat.
January 25
I woke up with a Boston terrier licking my face.
Breakfast consisted of rice balls and a can of salmon. She showed or tried to show us how to cook rice. It might come in handy, the bulk section of the grocery stores seem to be nearly untouched. Everyone is or was going for the canned stuff. The easy stuff. The lazy stuff. Preserved, chemically played with, flavor enhanced, liquid smoke. Instant, fast and not good for you. I don’t remember the last time I had a bowel movement. We’re all going to get scurvy. Note to self; find some multivitamins.
After hours of driving lessons later, more crashes, fender benders, crappy left turns, she finally seemed to (kind of) get the hang of it. Instead of parallel parking, we taught her how to weave in and out of tight spaces created by the traffic jams of abandoned and wreaked cars. Instead of slowing for pedestrians at cross walks and school zones, we showed her how to bump the undead out of the way without damaging the vehicle. As a graduation present from the Wandering-spirit driving school Ron hot-wired a new undamaged car. It wasn’t as “kawaii” as she wanted, just a sturdy mini-van with enough room for her and her dogs. We made sure to fill the tank plus a few jerry cans of gas, more than enough fuel even if she gets lost a few times. To help prevent that happening, I tore out the pages of my atlas that she would need going over them until she convinced me that she knew where to go. Her compass doesn’t exactly point north. I also handed her the flyer with a hand drawn map on the back incase L.A. doesn’t work out.
She gave a bow as we helped load her supplies and her dog into her van. I’m not sure what she is going to find in L.A. but then again I’m not sure what I’ll find when if I make it home.
January 26
Resting in the ditch was the tail section sticking up like a shark fin. Scattered across the highway lay the wreckage of what was once been a large plane. Maneuvering through the debris we noticed more wrecks scattered across the countryside. Countless impact craters marred the desolate red earth. Not an airplane graveyard, rather an aviation slaughterhouse. A deep furrow carved in the dirt as if a giant plow came by leading to seats, luggage, insulation, engine and plane parts scattered for hundreds of meters. I can only guess what happened, a mid flight collision or maybe the airport had them circle in a holding pattern waiting for a runway but they ran out of fuel before they could land. There was no point in stopping. The last sight I remember was a burnt teddy bear lying on the road.
January 27
No matter how long I looked I couldn’t believe it. There it was, the Gathering. No undead around the gates. A truck with armed men in the bed patrolled the outside perimeter. Earth work walls were being constructed and a chain link fence separated them from the outside world, but what drew our attention was the armed checkpoint. Cement barriers arranged in a pattern that would slow down and prevent a vehicle a clear path through the gate. The few cars that came stopped and the guards didn’t do anything crazy. It looked like they asked a few questions and then pointed out where to go. We came this far.
I knew Ron long enough that I could read his mind. I turned to him as we approached the guards.
“Don’t say it.”
Ron had a mischievous smirk on his face.
“Don’t. Don’t even think about it.”
“I have to,” He said as he gripped the wheel, biting his lip in a guilty way.
The guard motioned us to stop. I’m no expert on weapons but the guns were big and deadly.
Two guards had their guns trained on us as two more cautiously approached the truck one on each side.
Ron rolled down his window. He let the pause hang in the air embrace everyone with its awkwardness.
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
Shit.
The muffled voice replied, “Like I haven’t heard that one before. Turn the engine off and exit the vehicle.”
Looking into the black polarized lenses of the helmet I said, “I never expected to run into a platoon of storm troopers.”
The sun reflecting off onyx eyes, he tilted his head.
“Sandtroopers actually,” said the lead guard, taking off his helmet revealing a man in his early 20’s “There are many minor, yet important differences in armour and weapons.” He continued as he placed Buddy Holly type glasses on his face.
“Nerds,” Ron said in a low tone, “Can’t escape them even in all this shit.”
“Hey Bernie, mark that mouthy dark haired guy for the ‘special” physical,” Buddy said with a lop-sided grin.
Sandtroopers! The check stop was manned by half a dozen armed sandtroopers from Star Wars, which is fitting this being the dessert. Not the shitty new Star wars, which I like to pretend never were made, but the old school ones. The ones I grew up with before all the CGI bullshit. From head to toe they were dressed in white homemade armour, painstakingly realistic matching to what was in the movies. Their guns were real, not blasters and they pointed them at us as they led us to a parking area where we get out of the jeep. One of them drove o
ur jeep away to an area where a crew in coveralls inspected the inside as well as washed and scrubbed it down. We were lead into a tent on the parking lot of the Hard Rock Hotel Albuquerque and then to separate waiting rooms where I was asked to undress. Buddy took my filthy sweat stained clothes placing them into a garbage bag as he was walking out he turned passing me a thermometer.
“It’s for your mouth,” Buddy said as he walked out, “Your pal isn’t so lucky.”
Exposed in all my malnourished glory, I sat on the table waiting. Even in a plague of the undead, doctors take sadistic pleasure in making people wait.
A doctor entered, flipping through a chart they had me fill out while I was waiting.
“You’re not Navajo,” she said without looking at me, her attention on the thermometer she took from my mouth.
“Temperature is normal,” She said, then brought a wood tongue depressor to my mouth.
“I’m from up north. Cree. Way up north.”
She made eye contact with me for the first time. Her eyes were a deep serious brown. Slightly frowning she said “Sorry, I don’t know any news from up there.” I didn’t ask but I guess everyone that come through asks for news from home.
She was in her mid-thirties, honey brown skin, slim but fit. She wore her lab coat with her name tag Dr. Cypress Starr. UNM Children’s Hospital.
She flashed a light in my eyes and watched my pupils respond.
I noticed she has a gun under her labcoat in case a patient started to turn during my examination. She felt the glands on my throat and examined under my armpits.
She was all business, inspecting me for any signs of bites, signs of infection or any of the diseases they were finding in those who tried to stay in the big cities. She rattled off a list of horrible diseases one can get with contact with dead bodies; Typhoid, Cholera, small pox and a half dozen more that I didn’t listen to. If any of those get inside, it would cripple the Gathering.
Tomahawks & Zombies Page 9