Zomblog: The Final Entry

by TW Brown

  As for the girls, the taunts and jeers coming from their mouths were…heinous comes to mind. They were actually laughing while they jerked on the ropes that they had tied to each of the man’s ankles. The curious and bizarre thing about the scene was that the girls were each wearing nothing more than their bra and panties.

  I slipped back down the hill and relayed things to Eric. He seemed to puzzle over it for a minute, and then said, “Not our problem.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As I argued my point, I heard another scream. This one was much longer and louder than the first. It ended in a sudden and liquid-sounding yelp. Then…there was the distinct cacophony of rabid cheering.

  Eric seemed to be much more concerned about leaving. Since I really had no idea what was happening, it was very difficult for me to agree to leave. However, I was still self-conscious about the trouble I’d gotten us into a few days ago by nosing around. Therefore…against my character, I agreed without an argument.

  We were almost to the road when we heard a voice. A girl was calling for us to wait up. When I turned around, I was only mildly surprised to see a girl in her bra and panties running after us. She looked even more surprised at me when I turned to face her. I guess with all the gear on—leathers, boots, gloves, and a baseball cap pulled low over my eyes—I could be mistaken for a guy.

  The story—as they told it—is that these girls are escapees from some compound in the area. They’ve been at ‘war’ with the men of this compound for about five weeks. They use one of their own as bait. Apparently the men are stupid enough to keep falling for it. She didn’t even hide her glare at Eric as she talked.

  I didn’t feel like spending my day talking to this girl, but I needed to ask: What’s the situation in Burns? She looked at me like I’d just fallen off the moon.

  “Walled up, locked down and they don’t allow in strangers.”

  She elaborated by saying that if you weren’t born in, or a resident of, Burns for a year or more before the dead started walking, you received the same mercy that they showed the zombies…none. They keep mounted patrols, most of which give you a warning that you aren’t welcome before they open fire.

  The “wall” that they’ve built encloses about three times the area that was formerly known as Burns, Oregon. They are most protective of the river just south of town, and have towers that allow their watches to see for a few miles in every direction. They mostly worry about zombies and don’t seem to mind folks filling water containers as long as they are downstream.

  We’re about two days or so from Burns. There will be a small airfield when we come out of the pass that opens up on the farmland community surrounding this city-fortress. We are supposed to keep heading south along SR-205…a highway that will take us to a big lake. From there, we can head east again until we hook up with OR-78/Steens Highway. Eventually, that will dump us onto US-95, which will take us to Nevada.

  I realize that we had to wait to cross the Mount Hood section of our journey because, as it was, the weather made for a tough trip. I think that crossing Nevada during the summer may actually be worse. Finding a car wouldn’t be tough. Finding one that would work—one that the gasoline hasn’t gone bad—would be practically impossible. What we need are bicycles. Good ones.

  Even if we have to push the bikes for parts of the trip when we hit hills, we would move so much quicker when we rode over long stretches of the flat desert terrain ahead. If we don’t find bikes, we may not survive the summer. It’s almost funny; the walking dead are less of a concern than Mother Nature.

  Eric was a good boy and didn’t let it slip as to where we are headed. However, I think that the girl had inkling. After all, she not only told us how to get around Burns, she also told us when and where to get back on the highway headed south to Vegas.

  Once our little chat ended, she turned on her heel and strutted off. For somebody so young, she was awfully comfortable with her body. At that age, I didn’t let my boyfriend slip his hand under my shirt if the light was on. I guess we are reverting to our more raw natures…the way we were before society had its way with our moral compass.

  I think it is different in many ways this time, though. Women who have survived this long are probably a strong bunch. We won’t be second-class citizens this time. And, judging by those girls we left behind today, men had better watch themselves.

  It’s definitely a New World Order.

  Wednesday, May 12

  Rain.

  No…wait…scratch that. The skies have opened up in a waterfall-like torrent. There is not one single part of me that is dry. We are sitting in this abandoned car to avoid the worst of it. Well, at least as best we can. I say that because one of the windows on the passenger side of the car is gone and most of the rubber seals on the rest have froze and melted so many times, to the point that there is no watertight integrity here. Water pours in from every seam, crease, and crack. Still, this is better than being outside.

  I’m sitting in the middle of the front seat, Eric is in the back. Sam is curled up beside me. He was shivering in that way doggies do when they are cold and wet. I have him wrapped up in one of my sweatshirts. Now he only shivers in little fits every few minutes.

  We have all our empty containers outside collecting water. That is one true blessing from all this. I’ve watched three lone shamblers and one mini-herd of twenty or so go past. I got a little worried about the herd, but they were in the other lane and never even made a move our direction. All of them were headed away from Burns.

  During the brief conversation I managed to coax from Eric today, I laid out my plan for a bicycle. He nodded and asked me why I waited so long to make that call. I gave it some thought…then told him to shut up.

  Okay, Meredith…why did you wait so long?

  Thursday, May 13

  The road is probably not going to be here much longer. We’ve passed entire sections that are buried or washed away. It keeps getting worse.

  We came out into this large opening, a valley that cuts between the hills on either side of the highway. The remnants of large, circular farm plots can still be seen.

  Then there is this charred husk of a fighter jet that is jutting from deep in the fields on the south. I wanted to go check it out, but once again Eric was against it. Sam sorta backed Eric in a way. He kept sniffing towards the chest-high growth that has laid claim to the area and growling with real purpose. It could’ve been the wind…or not…but there was a lot of rustling in the grass or whatever it is that makes up that mini-jungle along the southern border of the highway.

  Tonight we are camped on a rocky outcropping that looks down into the valley. As the sun sets, the bowl fills with shadows which quickly become an inky blackness. Sure enough, every once in a while Sam’s ears will perk up. Sometimes, I think I can hear them, too. Just as the citizens of Burns have staked their claim, so too have the undead…in this valley.

  Friday, May 14

  The sounds of distant gunfire woke us today. Not from the valley below…or Burns to the east. This came from the hills above us. Eric told me to stay put. When I woke, he was already awake and strapping on his gear.

  I tried to protest, but he told me that I needed to listen to him “just this once.” He said that Sam and I should find a spot on the next ridge where we could keep a good eye on the highway in both directions. He wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Then, just like that, he was gone into the darkness. I don’t know if it is a Native American thing or what, but he vanished from sight before he even hit the shadows.

  Since he’s been gone, I’ve moved like he asked. I can’t really see into the valley/jungle below, but I don’t think that Eric was all that concerned about zombies. I am keeping my eyes on the highway like Eric said…and I haven’t seen a thing.

  Something feels very wrong. I don’t know exactly what, but there is a definite wrongness. Sam feels it, too. But it isn’t from the road below. There is something in the hills. I may not trust myself som
etimes, but my dog?

  Saturday, May 15

  Screams.

  Lots and lots of screams.

  It is impossible to tell if it is male or female. It has been going on all day long. I hate it. Oh, and Sam doesn’t like it either. He’s actually been hiding between my legs most of the day. And when I stand up, he presses against me.

  Funny thing about however many zombies are in that little valley below. They don’t seem inclined to roam. They don’t venture out of the tall grass. I see a lot of movement, but I’ve seen very few actual zombies wandering these parts.

  Monday, May 17

  I’m in a mostly burned out motel near what can only have been an airfield. I can see the town of Burns, or, more aptly put, I can see the wall. It is a mix of cars, trucks, concrete, and razor wire.

  Leave it to rural America, but this town has their shit together. There is no place to approach without crossing a few hundred yards of open, scorched ground. I can see a huge trench that I can only assume circles the entire town. There are towers every quarter mile or so. They’re only ten feet high—the barricade is maybe five—and each is manned. It all makes sense, I guess. Zombies aren’t known to be climbers. Also, there are bridge-like catwalks that span the trench. It is genius. They control where the zombies cross. Then they use hand-held weapons to dispose with the ones that reach the barricade. All of this is speculation, but it makes perfect sense if you actually see their setup.

  I’ve seen horse patrols come and go. One even rode out this way. They came close enough so that I could see them clearly as they waved. They know I’m here, and made it a point to let me know that they know. Whoever they were, they pointed to town, and then looked back at the window I was peeking from while trying not to expose myself. They made a big production out of shaking their heads “no.” The message is clear: I am not welcome here.

  As for Eric, he is sleeping in a nest of our gear on a filthy bed that you don’t need to shine a black light on in order to see just how vile it is. He came back late Sunday night. He was covered in blood; none of it was his. He refused to talk about whatever was going on in the hills. It begs the question: With all we’ve seen these past couple of years, what could be so bad that he won’t even talk about it?

  When he got back, he simply told me to grab our gear. We started walking in the dark; something that we never do. Eric says it is foolish to take such a risk like traveling in the dark. That holds true even on a clear night with a bright moon. Funny how things change.

  I’ve traveled with people who prefer night and those who prefer day. It is all pretty much the same to me. However, I did come close to breaking my ankles when we moved down out of the hills. Also, the ruined roads are no treat either.

  When we spotted the airfield and this place beside it, we found one of the few rooms with intact windows and a door. Eric didn’t even bother to clean up. He curled up into a ball and crashed.

  Sam won’t go near him. I couldn’t help myself; I checked his body very thoroughly for bites or scratches. He looked clean, although it was hard to be certain with all that blood. As you might have guessed, I won’t be sleeping. I will be watching Eric. Every hour or so, I peel his eyelids up and look for black tracers.

  So far, so good.

  Tuesday, May 18

  Eric is awake. He still won’t talk about what went on up in those hills, but at least he went outside and cleaned up. We were blessed with rain again today. Nothing like the other day; just a nice steady downpour for a while. When it blew over early this afternoon, there was a beautiful rainbow that was brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. It made me understand where that old “pot of gold” myth started. We could see where the rainbow ended in the fields south of us. The ground looked like it was glowing.

  Some time in the night, a delegation from Burns left us a note on the door. It is seriously creepy that neither of us heard a thing—more so with Eric than with me. The note was simple:

  We hope you enjoyed your stay.

  Checkout time is tomorrow morning.

  I guess we’re leaving tomorrow morning.

  Thursday, May 20

  I’d almost forgotten how scary situations can be when those things get you in their sights. Slow doesn’t mean a damned thing when there are a couple hundred.

  Eric and I were cutting through some fields on the route that girl suggested. The sun was high overhead and it was getting too hot for traveling. We were engrossed in one of the first real conversations that we’d had since he came back. Well, actually we were arguing. That’s why we didn’t see them.

  I was insistent on doing all our moving early in the morning and finding someplace out of the sun during the worst part of the day. Eric was insisting that it didn’t matter if we sweated out the day in some dreary shelter or dark cave…hot was hot. It was clear that he did not want to travel at night.

  Then we heard the first one let loose with that baby cry. I have no idea if Sam was trying to warn us or not, but when that thing cried, he tore away from us and charged the approaching herd of zombies. Of course those stupid walking strips of jerky started falling all over each other trying to get at the noisy, bouncing dog. It was like watching a twisted version of the Keystone Kops.

  We both knew that there was no way we could take on that many. If your weapon gets stuck once, you’re through. The biggest problem besides there being so many was that there wasn’t any place to run. We were out in the middle of nowhere amidst gullies, arroyos, and gently rolling—for the most part—hills. Oh…and did I mention that it was hot.

  We started at an easy jog. Every hill that we put between us and them gave us a moment or two to catch our breath and alter our course, taking us further and further from the main body. It took almost the entire day to swing wide enough, but we eventually managed to give them the slip. Sam was blessedly quiet while we ran.

  It didn’t seem like we would ever actually shake them. By the time the sun was at our back, I began to think that we might not escape this one intact. Then we found what I’m pretty sure was a wheat field. It had grown into something else. All those vines and plants that I would call weeds were in a battle to reclaim the land. The actual rows were hard to find, but we were able to weasel our way through.

  When we found the great big John Deere, Eric came up with a brilliant plan. So now we’re sitting in this huge storage section. We even have a bed of decomposing stalks to rest on. It smells like rotten leaves, and there are a lot of bugs, but it is better than being eaten by zombies. We’ve heard them pass by for the last couple of hours and the sun will be setting soon.

  The smell ain’t the greatest, but I’ve smelled worse. I’m not exactly sure where we are, and we won’t know until tomorrow if our little plan worked. The hope is that when we peek over the lip of this long, metal bin…the coast will be clear. We’ll resume heading east until we rejoin the highway. Our gas station map says that we shouldn’t run into much more than pencil-dot towns until we cross into Nevada.

  Hard to say what we will find in the small towns, but I’m actually a little tingly when I think about reaching Winnemucca. Not only will it represent the best chance at scavenging, it should provide a challenge…some real fighting. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Sunday, May 23

  Nothing. That is all there is to see for miles in every direction. To the south, I can see the uneven horizon of a distant mountain range. The landscape will funnel us to the remnants of the highway…eventually. But for now, there is just nothing here.

  To the southwest we’ve seen tendrils of smoke from multiple small fires. Eric is convinced that there is a small community over there; probably on the shores of Malheur Lake.

  There are a surprising number of streams and creeks to be found. I don’t know what exactly I expected, but after miles of high desert, this is like a whole other world. We’ve discovered an abundance of edible plants, and even rabbits. Lots of rabbits. Either the zombies aren’t interested, or they just can’t cat
ch them.

  Monday, May 24

  Thunder. Lightning. Rain.

  Tuesday, May 25

  The reddish-brown clay or dirt, or whatever the hell you call the crap that is so dominant around these parts, is sticking to everything. Every hour or so, we have to stop in order to scrape the stuff off the tires of our carts and the soles of our boots. It would be a disaster if we have to move with any sort of urgency. We are finding that more and more of the highway is gone.

  Also, we ran across something that made us stop for the day: a military caravan. Tanks, Jeeps, troop transports, the whole ball of wax are here. There isn’t a sign of a living soul having been through here in…ever. Even though we don’t expect to find anything too exciting—that is still functional—we will search everything thoroughly in the morning. Tonight, I’m sleeping in an honest-to-goodness tank. Alone. You never realize how much you miss your privacy until you never have any.

  Wednesday, May 26

  Swapped out into some nicer boots. I’m fairly certain he won’t miss them. More and more I am finding that I have lowered my standards on what is acceptable. For instance, the young man whom I discovered inside a tank with his brains blown out from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the face; it wasn’t until just now that I gave a thought to the fact that I peeled his boots off his feet. Or that they are now snuggly fitting on my own.