by TW Brown
Thursday, July 10
After meeting with Grace and Larry—both are now “involved” in sending out teams as the election looms—it is decided that my team leaves in one week. I am supposed to pick my group. First, they’d like us to try for Coeur d’Alene and scout for supplies.
Initially I argued against a city that size. We have to risk our asses twice for folks who barely acknowledged that we lost over half of our team last time. That was when Larry chimed in with, “It’s all part of the new world order.” I invited Larry to go “Fuck himself”.
After a lot of very similar words, I agreed to go only if Grace’s son Derrick and Larry’s seeming conspirator-in-arms, Snoe, are part of my team. I made it clear that the old ways of the supposed people in power keeping their families out of harm’s way are as dead as the majority of the global population. And, while Snoe is no kin to Larry, they are very close. Like drinking buddies.
They agreed, which means I now have two of the twenty folks that will make this next run at Noxon. One other point I need to make. That other team that left back when Sam and I made our ill-fated Noxon trip has never returned. While there is still hope being held out that word will return of their success…I highly doubt it.
Friday, July 11
Picked my whole team: Snoe Banks and Derrick Arndt of course. Roy, Caren, and Jimmy…can’t break up the old team. Troy Marsh, a middle-aged guy who used to be a janitor. Ella Reecie, a housewife who walked in on her eight-year-old son eating her husband. Jacob Porter, a youth minister. Doug Keller, a self professed forty-nine-year-old burn-out who is relishing his new, albeit forced, sobriety. Five refugees from that Spokane air base: Gus Miller, Delmar Jones, Brad Johnson, Cory Simpson, and Gene Tasker. These guys are all twenty-somethings like most of my friends and co-workers from before…only with great work ethics. Cera Lee, her name is pronounced like the former baked goods name, only she looks like a geisha. She has no Asian accent at all, but tells the best jokes. Her funniest stories all revolve around her former job in a Chinese restaurant where she was always pissing off management with her politically incorrect impersonations of their accents. Tracy Russell, at six-foot-six, she’s the tallest in our group, beating Delmar by about two inches. She’s that coffee-with-crème color, and pretty enough to make me wish I was a lesbian. Ringo, he’s a biker, and that is pretty much all anybody knows. Sugar, Ringo’s girlfriend who is bigger and meaner than Ringo. Last is Gary “Turk” Morris. He played pro-football for Seattle on the offensive line for two years until he blew his shoulder. Soft spoken, but very much a no-nonsense guy.
Saturday, July 12
Took a pair of deuce-and-a-half trucks and rolled out early this morning. It was a bit of déjà vu. I hope this run is not as ill-fated as the Noxon run. Supply runs are actually sorta fun. It is like shopping with an unlimited credit card and somebody else pays the bill. Now before you start stereotyping me as just-another-girl-who-likes-to-shop, I will say in my defense that I only did it back in the pre-zombie days when my best friend Corinne Flotsky wanted me to go. And whether you’re a guy who went to Home Depot or a gal that had to get her Macy’s fix …shopping is shopping.
So there.
Snoe led us to a relatively deserted road called East French Gulch Road where we were able to drive into this walled- in private golf course. She said this was the best staging point. From here we can cross under I-90 and sneak into Coeur D’Alene then, in teams of four, all equipped with two-way radios, we can fan out in search of supplies.
I teamed with Derrick Arndt, Gene Tasker, and Cera Lee. We hit a hardware store for tools and such, then a sporting goods place which turned out to be a total bust. Looters—as well as zombies—have taken or ruined so much. Our luck was better in private residences. We found plenty of abandoned weapons, often with ammo supplies in reach. Lots of shotguns and hunting rifles as well as handguns. Strangely, clubs, bats and that sort of thing are not as common. Maybe people started to catch on that shooting should really be a last resort unless you’re in a position where drawing a bunch of attention isn’t going to greatly increase the chance you will be bitten. Basically anyplace high up or without windows.
Food is another matter. It is getting almost impossible to find anything you can actually consume. Even a lot of dried foods are turning moldy now. Stale corn chips and crackers are okay, but salsa and dip are off the menu. We are unwillingly becoming vegetarians, and, as the junk food has begun to turn, we are left with canned soups, ramen noodles, and the Hawaiian favorite…Spam. Or, as I’ve divided them…condensed liquid salt, dry salt, and jellied, greasy, meaty salt. The only things that taste good anymore are the stuff from the gardens.
Oh…there are also various powders and such from the stores that used to cater to those perversely obsessed workout types. So’ I’ve described our dietary staples. We are fully stocked with a variety of that junk—minus fresh garden veggies—guns, tools, generators, and fuel.
I am noticing that a lot of places are sporting a spray-painted “X” which is our sign that the location has been thoroughly sacked. We are having to venture further into town with each trip. We had enough “company” during our run today. Nothing we couldn’t handle, but pretty soon we’ll be going in where the zombies are thick.
Something to consider.
Sunday, July 13
Spent today with Joey and his new family: Colleen and Tim. We hung out down at the river. I might as well enjoy wearing a two-piece while I can. In a few months, not only will it be getting chilly, but I will be getting rounder.
I’m pretty sure that nothing I do now will cause any problems or complications. Who knows, if the Noxon compound is nice, maybe I’ll stay there to have the baby. Best not get too worked up about things until I know I’ll be alive to see it through. After all, that is the reality we live in.
Am I cynical? Maybe.
Monday, July 14
First time we’ve seen the zombies at our complex. Sure, it was only one. But one zombie, when you are just not expecting it, can wreak havoc. Even after our report about that migrating herd we encountered, nobody, myself included, expected to see anything out here in the middle of nowhere. To make matters worse, it was a creeper.
That zombie caused a lot more trouble than the usual horrid death here at good ole Irony, USA.
It happened this morning at about five. It was the first scream that told everybody one of them had found us. Of course, initially, we had no idea if it was one, or a hundred, or a thousand. I was up and running, crossbow in hand, before the sleepiness had even cleared my brain.
I ran down the main—I guess it is nothing more than a really wide path—avenue and before I got to the rope ladders, Snoe, Derrick, and Larry Bonn were right there with me. We were climbing down when the second scream sounded…a bit different in pitch, but obviously the result of somebody being torn into by a zombie. It was coming from the other side of the stream, which was a good sign. That was the last bit of good news for us today.
Crashing through the brush, we burst into a clearing to see Greg Chase, that thirty-two-year-old, African-American… black…hell, does it matter anymore…anyways, that guy has this creeper by what is left of its torso and he is pounding it on a rock. Only, two things; first—he is buck-ass naked and bleeding bad from one arm, second, curled up in the fetal position, covered in blood, is Marissa Blaney, one of those kids (she was fourteen) also naked.
Snoe simply walked up behind Greg, put a bullet in the back of his head, then turned to Marissa and, while the girl was looking at me as I put a crossbow bolt in the zombies head, shot her in the temple. I guess we’re not waiting to see if they’ll turn anymore.
By now, thirty or so people are catching up. Any chance of containing this vanished with their arrival. There can be no disputing what was going on with Greg and Marissa. Also, the folks at Irony now know that no place is safe from the threat of the undead plague.
At dinner, the main conversation was who is having sex with whom. Wh
at should be done about it…and how will it be enforced.
I’ve never been happier to be leaving this place. These next three days can’t go fast enough. Until the 17th, I’m going into hiding and, unless it has to do with my team or the trip, I’m not coming out.
Thursday, July 17
Early Morning
I’ll be surprised if Irony is still in one piece when I—if I—get back. Once more I’ve left the rugged Cougar Peak area and the relative, if not falsely relied upon, security of the community known as Irony, USA. Once more I set out for the Noxon/Trout Creek area and an abandoned religious sect’s compound. The thrill of being out in the uncertainty has me actually giddy with anticipation.
Maybe I am an adrenaline junkie.
Evening
We made excellent time today. Tonight we are camped beside a beautiful blue river surrounded by pine trees. As the sun sets, it is almost completely silent. I did see a bird, a really big one, gliding in the cloudless sky.
More exciting, we are looking down on a tiny town that Roy says is Heron, MT. this is exciting on a few points: First—we made great time on some back roads and only ran into issues late this afternoon. Considering how long this trip has taken in the past, and to know it would be possible that we could be looking at our objective tomorrow feels like a good omen. Second—we have located what looks to be the encamped location of the maniacs who killed Scott, Sasha, Bill, Shannon, and Kyle as well as being at least partially responsible for Sam’s death.
They are set up nicely in Heron. They have big rigs, motorcycles, Hummers, and a freakin’ tank! We actually found them by mistake. Their mistake.
We were setting up by the river deciding that it would be best to hit our target shortly after first light. We hadn’t seen more than a handful of zombies—all stragglers—during the day. And did I mention that it is so very quiet?
A burst of gunfire suddenly echoes. About twenty minutes pass. We have all gone to locked-and-loaded status and on the lookout for trouble to come from any direction. We had just about reached the point where we could relax when Ella, who is set up in some dense brush by the water, starts snapping her fingers (it gets attention without being too loud). A raft is floating down the river. It has a few posts mounted on it. There are a total of seven people fastened to them. Also, lying sprawled on the raft are a few more…and they are starting to stir! The folks fastened to the posts are all dead, obviously shot up.
None of us can figure out why there are some who were shot to death and yet, obviously, several recently bitten folks are left unbound, unshot, and just laying on a raft, then set adrift on a river.
We were rotating in our groups of four, keeping watch on their camp. We had a vote and have decided that even if we have to delay our trip to Noxon/Trout Creek…so be it.
These people are worse than the zombies and need to be dealt with.
Friday, July 18
Nothing worth having or doing seems to come easy. Today is no exception. My team had the second watch. All of us have come to the conclusion that these people have no regard for themselves or others. They make no attempt to hide or be secretive. Sure, this is the middle of the wilderness, but zombies seem able to hone in on sound just as if they could hear. Since I’ve never met one that could tell me one way or the other, I can only guess.
These people have obviously made obtaining alcohol a priority. I won’t say I was surprised when we found a wide variety of drugs as well. They partied until long past my watch shift.
We moved in before sunrise. Since we’d had a couple hours of evening light, as well as their blazing bonfire, it was simple to side-step the barricades and pits meant only to stop or hamper the unthinking, unreasoning undead.
There was no formal sentry in place. These folks were cowboys to the last. They did have a handful of zombies collared and chained to twenty-foot leads. A couple actually got aggressive at the sight of us. Nothing a well placed crossbow bolt didn’t solve. The oddity was the pair that simply sat quietly watching us pass. It almost seemed that they—the zombies—wanted us to come and kill these demented folks.
I can say without question, even discounting their penchant for sadism demonstrated by the manner in which they killed our friends, that this was a sick group. More on that in a moment.
We crept in and made for the biggest concentration. We knew they were crashed out in a trio of double-wides. It was almost too easy to tie off the doors, making exiting a real problem. Then, after dousing the trailers and a good portion of the surrounding ground with gasoline…we positioned ourselves in firing zones and lit the match.
The fire spread quickly. Within minutes we could hear them. About then, Turk’s group, who had our backs, opened up on the few who had sought their night’s sleep in other locations and came stumbling out bleary-eyed and confused to investigate the fire and now growing commotion.
That was also when the middle trailer exploded. I don’t know how we missed the big, white propane tank. A moment later…their ammo started cooking off. They had a lot of ammo.
Doug Keller never saw it coming. At least that is what I’ve convinced myself of since he looks so peaceful. The bullet took him right in the temple in a way that would have made a mob goon proud. He was still smiling that goofy grin, only his dead, glazed eyes made it look a bit creepy.
Doug was our only casualty.
It was while we did a thorough walk-through of this no-stoplight town that the more disturbing finds were discovered. The vast quantities of various drugs were no big surprise. Then we found the gruesome discovery in the tank. I can only imagine what purposes were served by having no less than ten armless, legless zombies in its cockpit or whatever they call the interior of a tank. There is blood caked everywhere as well as unrecognizable remains of whoever was unfortunate enough to be cast inside and locked in.
It was just after the tank revelation that we found HER. I could still recognize her face even in its discolored, waxy, sagging, zombie state. A face seen in several movies and often on the front of those useless tabloids. I seem to remember reading or hearing that she had a huge log cabin style mansion out in these parts.
My guess is this group found her. I bet she thought she’d been saved. Who knows how long they kept her or what they did to her until boredom set in. At some point, they let her be bitten. Not bad, just enough to put her in this state. Only, it seems they had not finished using her for unspeakable, unthinkable things.
She was tied to a pallet. Naked. The pile of used, discarded condoms tell a story I’d rather not dwell too deeply on. I looked into her eyes for a moment. Can a zombie be sad? Her eyes, even in death, looked like those I’ve seen on a few girlfriends who become their significant other’s punching bag on Saturday nights after a few too many cold ones.
I almost felt sorry for her before bringing up the crossbow and ending her career once and for all.
Tonight, we’ll spend the evening in our camp from yesterday. Tomorrow, we move on to Noxon/Trout Creek.
Saturday, July 19
Their names are Julie Barton and Jack Whitefoot. They are the only survivors of Noxon, MT.
We had decided to check the town for supplies before continuing south where we will take the gravel road that will loop us back into the mountains and eventually lead to the isolated commune-cult complex.
We came into town from the northwest using the increasingly treacherous Highway 200. The street or road …whatever…is littered with scattered bodies. These rural areas probably put up the best fights. That helps, since not only was the base population minimal, but the locals took out a high percentage of the undead before eventually succumbing or perhaps retreating.
In Noxon, it seems that the fight went in favor of the living. We encountered twenty or so of the undead former residents as we rolled into town. They came out in typical fashion, attracted by the sound of our vehicles.
We stopped in front of a long, log cabin style building; the Hereford Restaurant. In less time than
it takes to write this…we had put down the only visible threat. Just as we finished, a shot rang out and Turk fell to the ground clutching his left leg. Of course everybody except Sugar went diving for cover. Sugar dove for Turk.
A voice called out, telling us that we’d “best get back in our trucks and go back the way we came.” I figured the owner of that voice to be a bit more frightened than we were, even with us being initially the more vulnerable. Mostly due to the quavering change in pitch. I stood up, setting my crossbow on the ground and extending my arms out to try and show I was not a threat.
“We’re not here to harm anybody,” I said. “We are only passing through, heading towards Trout Creek.”
“Trout Creek’s dead,” a shaky male voice answered. “Nobody left,so don’t bother.”
“There was a commune nearby,” I prompted.
“The Jesus-Crispies?”
I heard a smattering of muffled laughter from my group.
“They’re all dead, too,” he called back after I shushed the others. “In fact it was them that brought this crap down on us.”
I was tired of yelling my conversation. “Why don’t you and I talk normal, instead of yelling back and forth? I’m un-armed.”
“Just you,” the male voice said hesitantly. “Come up the road to the school.”
After assuring everybody that I knew what I was doing, and checking on Turk—it was a clean shot—bullet went in and out. That’s not to say that his left calf wasn’t messed up, only that we wouldn’t have to dig out the bullet. Hey, take your plusses where you can.