by TW Brown
For the next few days, we’ll help get this place cleaned up. It is inhabitable now, but could use a bit of cleaning supplies in stock. That should keep us busy for a bit.
Friday, August 8
Remember that insult to women and music known as Spice Girls? I recall this big fuss over “Girl Power.” Apparently “Girl Power” meant to dress like a whore and lip-sync on stage to over-processed garbage. Well, what I saw today...that was real Girl Power.
Caren, Snoe, Cera, and I decided to take liberal advantage of some of the soaps, oils, and lotions brought back from Trout Creek. We went to one of the many streams that are around and—after warning the men that any sounds in the brush would be treated as hostile or undead—we grabbed the cleaning stuff and a modest arsenal.
Each of us found a spot that included a sun-drenched rock for after and enjoyed a nice bath. Not even twenty minutes in there is some rustling in the brush. Cera hurled a rock and let loose a string of threats and profanity that were almost embarrassing.
The rustling stopped...for about five seconds. Then, three hideously ravaged zombies stumbled out. These three had been dead a long time. One of them was all but hollowed out. The spine and ribcage were intact and had enough around them to barely support the upper body. Even so, it bobbed and wobbled like a hideous Jack-in-the-box on a worn spring.
The other two were equally horrid. Cera was their closest target and all three lurched at her. She is rolling in knee-deep water, fighting off these three things while Snoe, Caren, and I are fumbling for the nearest weapon. In my mind, I was saying my goodbyes to Cera. Spinning around with my crossbow, I turn in time to see Cera literally yank the head off of the Jack-in-the-box- zombie. She snaps off a rib and jams it into the eye-socket of one that had been knocked to its knees at some point.
That left one.
It was clutching a handful of Cera’s hair, trying to take a bite out of the nape of her neck. Cera snapped her head back, crushing the front of the thing’s face. Of course, it could care less and continued to gnash its teeth in hopes that it would close them on a mouthful of warm, honey-gold, Asian-bred flesh. With a snap of the fingers she had ducked under this thing, spun—which yanked out a handful of silky black hair—and, with the still gooey-tipped rib bone, skewered the final zombie from under the chin and deep up into the brain.
Nobody does it like Cera Lee.
Saturday, August 9
Snoe and I had a long talk today. We talked about the potential value versus the absolute risk involved in making a big city run. She wants to make this run count.
I’m not surprised to discover she has been formulating a plan for just this sort of venture for weeks. She actually produced a notebook with pages of notes!
Her plan, which, unless I hear something remarkably better, is the one that will be used. An all-woman recon team! This has potential! The participants will be me, Snoe, Caren, Cera, and from Irony—it seems Snoe had talks with a couple of others prior to joining me on this most recent run—Tara Jacoby, Brittany Maldanado, and a nurse named Penelope Sinclair. Penelope is around forty with shoulder length brunette hair, brown eyes, and a Susan Sarandon sexiness.
Snoe wants to fit a pair of eighteen-wheelers with wedge-shaped plow blades in front; a machinegun turret atop the front and rear of the trailer of one. The second rig will be a tanker to provide ample fuel for the trip. The objective is to fill the trailer with supplies. Whether we return to Irony is not exactly etched in stone. Hell, it’s not even written in pencil.
Tomorrow, Snoe, and Caren will be leaving to scout for the vehicles. Again, I am not surprised that Snoe knows the whereabouts of a couple of potential targets. She says that the machinery to affix her modifications are more difficult to get at, but she knows where she needs to go.
Apparently she sent a coded message to Tara, Brittany and Penelope, with Roy. He’s decided he’d rather not make the trip. I was more relieved than surprised.
I asked how she managed to arrange for her message to be curried without being concerned that the word might get out at Irony, or that it would even be delivered. She looked at me with absolutely no expression and said, “You’d be surprised what a little threat of physical harm coupled with a blowjob can get accomplished.”
Okay then.
We will meet at a specified location in about a week. It seems that Snoe has everything else in hand as far as being prepared. All Cera and I need to do is hang out here. We’ll slip away two or three days before and that should give us plenty of time to get where we need to be.
I’ve avoided writing down where just in case somebody reads this and gets any ideas. Not that we are prisoners of Irony. Just that some folks might take issue with us leaving. Also, we don’t want to bring anybody other than this core group.
Monday, August 18
We’ll leave tonight after dark. It just seems better that way. Snoe returned yesterday and we have a vehicle, a 40’ Country Coach with a 400hp Cat diesel engine. The sides and rear have been reinforced and a series of three-inch studs were welded in place. Fang-shaped blades were attached so that the vehicle looks like a prehistoric porcupine. Forward and rear heavy machinegun mounts are in place on the roof. There is a V-shaped plow blade in front rigged to a hydraulic motor so it can be raised if need be. In addition we have a gas-tanker. It has also been rigged for protection. All the doors are welded shut. The entry ways are through hatches made in the roof. The RV is also rigged with an emergency escape/entry hatch in the floor.
Best we can figure, we’ll shoot for thirty miles max per day. The two most important things we can do is find a safe haven before sunrise. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention if it can be helped. Also, we will only travel at night. Those two things should increase our chances.
Sometimes I think we all have a death wish. Really…I mean…is it smart to travel TOWARDS populated areas? Cera says we should consider ourselves pirates or mercenaries.
Tuesday, August 19
That thirty mile max will be a real challenge. We rolled out late last night/early this morning. Following Highway 200 to the south, we are just outside of Thompson Falls. Traveling at night is really creepy. We don’t use headlights. Instead, Snoe managed to acquire night-vision goggles. All of us are wearing headsets and can communicate. I feel like a Special Forces member. The gun-turrets are great lookout posts, and whoever mans them is always keeping the drivers updated. The drivers are wearing the goggles, too, but the view from above really is superior.
Mostly we’ve seen a straggler here or there. Nothing like that herd we witnessed at the logging camp. Still, every single zombie we passed turned and followed us. They must be able to communicate or something because we pulled off the main road and up into some thick trees.
We dispatched with all the ones who were in sight and then retreated to our rigs. About an hour later they started walking past. We could see the road well enough and it was decided that we always keep somebody on watch. I have drawn the first shift.
First it was one, then a couple, then a handful…then what was probably close to a hundred! Most likely we will plow through them tomorrow night. It is just not realistic to think we can take out every zombie we pass. This does illustrate how vital it will be that we clear out every threat before we stop for the day. They do seem just as hampered by darkness as we are, so we’ve got that going for us at least.
Wednesday, August 20
The roads are an absolute mess. We cut through and into Idaho via someplace called Thompson Pass. Due to not wanting to attract attention, we will do our best to parallel I-90. But, we must minimize our use of the main interstate. We have more than the obvious reasons to stay out of sight. According to Snoe, Grace has the folks at Irony keeping an eye out. She intercepted some radio traffic and it seems that Irony was attacked by a roving band. Some of the invaders got away. Grace probably wouldn’t be thrilled to discover that we’ve taken off. Sure, we weren’t prisoners or anything. However, one can never really tell h
ow folks will react these days.
We will have to remind ourselves that the walking dead are only part of the worry while we are on the road. Not to be sexist…but this is especially true for an all-woman band of travelers.
Thursday, August 21
One of the disadvantages (and there are many) of driving large vehicles is that they don’t maneuver very well. Staying off the main road only makes this more pro-nounced. Travelling half the night on a winding road, only to discover that it fades into what can, at best, be described as a two-rutted dirt trail was very frustrating.
It took us the rest of the night to back up until we finally found a spot we could turn around in. All of us were uptight enough to chew nails and spit out thumb tacks by the time we stopped for the day. It’s not like we have a schedule or need to be at a certain point by a specific date or time. It was simply frustrating.
Friday, August 22
We stayed put today. Late yesterday afternoon we picked up a radio signal. It was a woman’s voice and she claims to be alone. That was our first clue. Whoever this is, it can only be a trap.
While we are fairly certain it is a woman, we all agree she is not likely alone. She says she is in a small town, Pinehurst Idaho, and that she is running low on food and ammo and is in “desperate need of help.”
Not that a woman couldn’t survive alone. Only, if she’s lasted this long, it is by wits and intelligence. The last thing she would do is advertise that SHE is ALONE. That’s asking for a fate worse than death (or undeath for that matter).
Pinehurst is close. Tomorrow, if the message is still being broadcast, we’ll decide whether to go in with guns blazing or take a wide arcing route. I vote guns. After all…this is supposed to be an adventure.
Saturday, August 23
We were right. Pinehurst was a trap. Snoe and I stayed in the woods, but moved in close enough to scout out the small town. Amazing what you can see with night-vision goggles. Spread out on about a dozen roofs were no less than twenty people.
About fifty to seventy-five zombies wandered about. It was Snoe that noticed they were all chained by the ankles, or in some cases, around the waist. Each one had twenty to thirty feet of chain to move about with. I had no idea what their scheme was, but we were not interested in finding out.
This has been a rough night for me in particular. About an hour after we got on the road, I began to feel nauseous. Morning sickness. Just great. I didn’t hurl, but all night I felt absolutely skanky.
We should creep into Washington tomorrow or the next day. I’m glad we did this. Even as lousy as I feel, this is a good thing. Being on the road, while certainly risky, offers much more possibility. Instead of living in fear or worse, barely existing, this is a proactive, take-charge-of-your-own-destiny endeavor.
Sunday, August 24
Feeling a lot better. Hell, if that little spell is all I have to deal with, I’m gonna consider it a blessing. Also, today was one of those days where things just seemed to go our way.
We made good time on the road. Saw very few of the pesky zombies, not only while we drove, but also when we camped for the night. The night was cool, and a gentle breeze even brought a bit of rain to clean the air. We all took a dip in a nearby creek and washed up. I do not look forward to the day when we have used the last of the toothpaste.
So, just after lunch, I heard what I was certain was a child’s laugh. Fearing that the undead had adapted a new trick similar to the baby-cry sound, we grabbed hand-to-hand weapons and went to investigate. That is how we met Dominique DuBois.
Dominique is a very eloquent twelve-year-old girl. Her straight black hair frames a doll’s oval face and accents her dazzling gray eyes. It seems that she is the last survivor of a group of grade school children that escaped from a large wreck near Pullman, WA. The children had been smart enough or scared enough to run for the hills. Her story is a bit jumbled in places and has no steady timeline. Yet there is no disputing that she was alive and well in her little camp at the base of a waterfall. She was actually splashing around in a bubble bath being churned to an amazing froth in the pool that the four or five-foot fall tumbles into. We never saw the fishing line attached to the empty cans that warned her of our approach. She was waiting for us without a weapon, showing no fear at all. When we asked her about it, she very matter-of-factly stated that “those stinky zombies are slower than slugs” and since she could “outrun everybody in Mrs. Bose’s fifth grade class, including the boys!” she would just outrun them, lead them from her camp, circle around, pack up, and move.
We actually had to convince her to come with us!
Tuesday, August 26
I think I know just how exasperated I made my parents as a young girl who was an extreme tom-boy with a know-it-all complex. Dominique is a bit of a handful. Cera even suggested sneaking her to Irony. Besides the unrealistic aspect of that plan, there is a strange bond forming between her and I.
Last night I rode in the forward .50 cal turret. Dominique (I call her Dom and she hates it so much you can see her visibly wince…which is why I call her Dom to her face) rode with me. I taught her about the weapon. How to clear it. Fire it. Load it. She is an amazingly fast learner.
However, it is no surprise that she is carrying some heavy emotional baggage. When she sleeps, she finds a spot to basically vanish into. She didn’t use any of the beds. She whimpered and, on occasions, she cried out. More than a few times, she would shout a name…Toby.
I didn’t grill her with questions. I figure when she is ready…if she is ready…she’ll talk. I still cannot believe that this willow-thin little girl has survived for any length of time, possibly months, on her own in this terrible, upside-down, dead world.
Thursday, August 28
Riding parallel to I-90, we actually made decent progress. Today we are in some trees and overgrown brush inside the relative safety of the Ritzville Golf Course. Lots of damage done to the town. In fact, most of what passed for the downtown area is burned down. Bodies decay in the open streets and for a while, I remembered Sam. Funny, I can’t recall what he looks like. I mean I’d recognize him if we met (and he were still alive). It’s just that I simply cannot picture his face.
Snoe and Caren went into town, what’s left, to see if there is anything missed worth taking with us. Also, Snoe is going to see how possible, if at all, it will be to top off with some diesel. Small towns like this are the best and easiest targets.
Dominique and I teamed with Cera and did a search and recon run down South Division Street, hooked over to East Wellsandt. It was the first chance I’ve had to see how Dominique deals with the undead.
She taunts them!
We encountered a handful near the burned down remains of a feed store. One of them was obscenely obese. His beer keg gut was laced with black veins that I first mistook for a really bad spider web tattoo. It stumbled out from blackened timbers that crunched like thin pond ice under his plodding, shuffling steps.
Of course Cera and I already had our sturdy machetes drawn, but before we could wade in and simply put him down, Dominique shot past. I thought she would charge into the beast and was about to scream her name when she suddenly darted to the left. The big thing did its best to turn with her, but was neither fast, nor coordinated enough. She skidded to a stop and spun on a heel, again changing direction. A few such moves and her strategy paid off. It stumbled, falling face down.
I think what disturbed both me and Cera was how savage she came in and bludgeoned the thing on the back of its skull. In moments we had eliminated the threat, but I cannot get over the look in Dominique’s eyes while she took out the big fat zombie and another that reminded me visually of Danny Glover.
A nasty thunderstorm rolled in about an hour ago. The big droplets of rain sound like dozens of tiny hands pounding on the roof of the RV.
Evening
Thunder and lightning storms are fairly common out here this time of year. This one is particularly fierce. Penelope insists she saw a
funnel-shaped cloud just to the north and west of us. She’s been sitting up front watching for Snoe and Caren. They still haven’t returned.
Saturday, August 30
We are really getting lucky. It actually scares me because of the way things seem to average out. Snoe and Caren found what has to be the supreme motherlode. A military supply train. Yes! A literal train! How something like this went unnoticed for so long, and so close to a town that has been the scene of serious looting completely stuns me.
It was clear that this train hadn’t been touched. Snoe says she and Caren had to dispatch over a hundred zombies that were trapped inside. After a proper scolding by all of us for them not using their heads when clearing the cars, and without bothering to radio us for back up (she says that it just got too busy too fast for them to be able to do anything…none of us were pacified by that excuse) we all went to look.
We now have cases of grenades stacked in the RV bathroom. Snoe is busy reinforcing a military Hum-Vee and an honest-to-goodness Bradley APC.
So, when we roll out of here, Dominique and I will be in the RV. Tara will drive the Hummer, Snoe the Bradley and Caren the eighteen-wheeled diesel fueling station.