by T. W. Brown
He was hoping that we would take off for the truck and head back to the complex. Once Tom stole the car, Al had to think fast because now they were out for our blood. Knowing that if we hadn’t run for safety, we would probably be at the Fred Meyer, he kept them searching in all the wrong places.
He said that since gunfire is still heard all over out here, we never brought any attention directly our way. But it helped him keep tabs. This morning, he had a feeling in his gut that the single shot had come from our direction. Worried that it was something bad since he had seen the army of zombies around the building whenever they had passed close, he decided that he had to make a move for us.
Al said that the gang was only what we had seen. Seven guys. They are holed up at the high school in the gym. They aren’t well organized, and mostly just interested in finding drugs and booze. Everybody was out cold when he slipped away. He had noticed the garbage truck a couple of blocks from the school.
The way they come and go is to get up on the roof and at one end, kitty-corner from the gym is an orchard; it is on the other side of a fence. Only a few of the things were wandering there, the majority are around the main entrance. So far, they had been careful to lure the zombies away and distract them from that orchard.
Al made a dash for the truck and then came for us. He had a Dumpster on the forks out in front and bulldozed his way to where Tom and I were watching. We jumped into the Dumpster and Al took us back…all the way to our truck.
The bed was splattered with Scott’s blood. Tom decided to unload everything from the pick-up truck to the garbage truck and then Al drove us back to the complex. Tom said we didn’t have time to clean it and Samantha would be upset enough without seeing all that mess.
Al even had his and Tom’s pack with most of the stuff they had obtained at the narcotics locker. Between that and what we grabbed with Preston, it was quite a haul.
Just very costly.
I finished washing up. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep.
Thursday, February 14
At last, a peaceful couple of days. Tomorrow, we will have a gathering to speak on the loss of Scott and Preston. Samantha asked if we could wait. I guess she just needed some time to get her mind wrapped around the thought of losing somebody she was such a part of. I know we’ve all lost people, but who can begrudge her some time to mourn privately since time is a luxury we have in abundance.
* * * * *
Al came to see me. So much for a peaceful day.
He’s sick.
It seems that when he got us back here and plowed through those things surrounding the fence, he got scratched up. We were busy blasting the ones close by so he could make it out of the cab and onto the roof. Of course, from there he joined us in the Dumpster where folks were helping us up and onto the trailer rigs.
At some point as he was fighting those things off and climbing out onto the arm of the hydraulic fork his arm got scratched up. Also, he has a puffy lesion on the side of his neck. Funny thing…his eyes are bloodshot…blackish blood.
Everybody was so excited about our return then so upset by the two deaths…nobody bothered to check any of us for marks or bites.
I went and brought Tom and Dennis to take a look. Dennis said that there is really nothing we can do. Al asked us to kill him, but neither of us could do it while he is still alive. Al won’t kill himself. He said something about religious beliefs. I wasn’t listening. All I could think of were Beth and Erin.
We decided to set him up with a bed in a bathroom in one of the warehouses. He will have a twenty-four hour watch. If he loses consciousness, we’ll tie him up real good…and wait.
Friday, February 15
The little memorial service has everybody in a funk. It was a reminder of just what we are trying so desperately to ignore on the other side of the fence.
The world is dying.
Let me correct that...mankind is dying.
Everybody knows about Al now. It seems like the entire complex has gone to see him and spend a few minutes with what has to be our first acknowledged hero.
* * * * *
Late this afternoon...Al lost consciousness.
Saturday, February 16
Alvin Maurice Godwin died this morning at 1:14 a.m.
His eyes opened at 1:16 a.m.
Monica Campinelli was at his side with Richard Hess and Cindy Partridge.
Monica put him to rest.
Sunday, February 17
Something big is happening in what can only be Beaverton or Portland. This morning, we awoke to a series of explosions. The horizon to our east lit up and, as the sun rose to a cloudless blue sky, the entire horizon is a smudge of black plumes from what must be incredible fires.
Some of the dead on that side of our complex turned and wandered off in that general direction. Not nearly enough to make that much of a difference.
I held a guitar class this afternoon. The kids were pretty receptive. I think that all the crap from these past several days has, for the most part, just bounced off them. It’s the adults who seem frayed.
There was a fight today. Over a woman. Don’t we have enough problems? Mankind is being eradicated and we still find time to fight over relatively petty bullshit.
Tom hasn’t spoken to anybody since Al died. He is, in some inexplicable way, taking the blame. Maybe because he felt betrayed at first…hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that I haven’t been able to quit thinking about Paul…the friend of mine in prison.
I’ve heard rumors (from him mostly) that if martial law or something REALLY bad happens, the guards are supposed to kill all the inmates. I wonder if he’s dead. I wonder about my band mates. I wonder about Megan. Hell…I even wonder about Britney and all those folks that used to flit by on the tabloids (and news channels for that matter). I wonder who woulda won the presidential election.
Now…none of that matters. I just wonder if the day will pass without another one of us dying. Turning.
Monday, February 18
Another day and whatever is on fire to the east of us is not showing any signs that it is burning out. Occasionally, the distant rumble of another explosion can be felt.
Saw something strange today. A few deer wandered down the middle of Highway 26. They would graze in the median until some of the zombies would get close, then bound away. It’s like they know those things can’t catch them, so they aren’t threatened.
I sat up on the roof of The Apartment and watched people in the complex go about their business. I watched those deer. And I am watching a pretty large…herd?... pack?...whatever…a bunch of those damn zombies coming this way from the east. Must be escaping the fires. That would indicate that they have at least some rudimentary form of self-preservation.
* * * * *
A convoy passed on the highway just after sunset! It looked like some 18-wheelers, some motorcycles, and some SUVs.
We debated on signaling them. Maybe there is something better…safer than what we have now.
Too many folks were spooked. Afraid they might be like those guys we encountered at the hospital. In the end, we just watched them roll past, headed toward the coast it would seem.
They did do a lot of shooting. So we at least knew they were armed pretty heavily. Way better than us by the sounds of it. There was some intense automatic weaponry being used.
One of the women, Reggie Vaughn, said it sounded like .50 caliber machineguns. It seems that Reggie was the daughter of an army officer. She married an enlisted guy (much to daddy’s disapproval) and had come to Oregon when her husband’s enlistment expired. He was a cop, and I guess he was one of those poor unfortunate bastards that fielded one of the earlier calls.
I’ve seen this Reggie around. She sticks to herself mostly. I’ve seen her doing what I can only guess to be yoga in the mornings. She wears a baggy sweat suit and keeps her long brown hair in a ponytail. No make-up. But you can tell that she would be a knockout if she ever dressed up. Like everybody else,
her eyes—big and golden brown—are mirrors of intense sadness.
Tuesday, February 19
Spent the day with Reggie. She’s a really sweet gal. We both just walked the fence and talked about losing our spouses (or ex in my case) to something so utterly unthinkable.
We ran into Greg who is busy setting up a garden. He had the kids helping while he taught them about soil and whatnot. I don’t think those kids even realize they were learning.
Dennis has posted a schedule. He wants to give everybody a physical. He says he is a little concerned about how our diet may be affecting us.
There is talk about another group going on a food scavenger run. My hands still have tremors.
Walking with Reggie, I am noticing that more and more people are getting despondent. It looks like they’ve given up…not everybody, just a handful or two…and it is a weight that everybody can feel.
There was one positive sign today. Little Joey was outside. He didn’t go over and help with setting up for the garden, but he inched his way out enough to be able to watch.
Baby steps.
Thursday, February 21
We took in a small group of survivors yesterday! It was quite a day. It began early Wednesday morning when one of our sentries, or watches, or patrols…whatever… spotted a flare to the southeast.
A bunch of us met on the roof of The Apartment and tried to locate the source. About fifteen minutes later, another flare was fired from what Rodney Bloss—the guy who was on watch and spotted the first one—said was closer. There was quite a debate. We had all been unanimous in our decision not to try and gain the attention of that big caravan the other night. But this was feeling different for a lot of us. Whoever it was, they were risking bringing a lot of attention their way.
The third flare cinched it.
After that aircraft flyover, we had made sure there were flare guns accessible all over. Never know where you might be when/if such a chance happens again. We fired one in response. About five minutes later we see two sets of headlights cutting through the darkness.
Once the vehicles came into view, cutting across Highway 26, we shot off one more flare to help them locate us easier. Using the same method we had when leaving the complex, we tried to split the horde. So many more had gathered that it was like digging a hole in the sand below the surf line. Clearly, these folks would need to figure out a way in.
We needn’t have worried.
Two huge RVs came rolling up the entry drive and into the outer parking lot. Both had been customized. Reinforced siding on the outside along with what looked like a big, steel, vee-shaped ram in the front allowed these things to literally plow through the zombies.
They actually took the time to parallel park beside the trailer rigs we used to protect our fences. A trap-door flipped up, and out popped an older man in his fifties. “Howdy…name’s Pete,” he waved as he climbed out.
Peter Crenshaw is fifty-seven with short, gray hair. He was a principal for a metro-area high school and looked every bit the role.
The other vehicle’s hatch flipped open and a man about the same age as Pete introduced himself as Tim. Tim Delegan is fifty-two and, unlike Pete, his black hair is only sprinkled with gray. Tim was the math and shop teacher at the same school.
It was at that school, in the first days, that Pete and Tim constructed these seemingly zombie-proof RVs. They did so with the help of another twenty-five people that also emerged. It was nothing for them to jump up onto the trailers and enter our complex.
Dennis had them all in our version of a quarantine while he checked everybody out. Early this afternoon they were all cleared. We are finding out through some of their stories that it is worse out there than we thought.
Zombies are only a small part of the problem.
Friday, February 22
Today I spoke with one of the new arrivals named Kimberly Vanderwell. She gave me some really horrific pictures of what is happening outside the relative safety of our complex’s fences.
That fire, which is finally dying down, was the industrial district on the waterfront along downtown Portland. Kim wasn’t sure how it started, but said that the blaze was hot enough to melt windows on buildings that faced the fire at least a quarter mile away.
There are bands of other survivors out and among the chaos. Some are just trying to stay alive. Others are taking full advantage of the total collapse of social structure. She said that the worst stories were coming from the big county jail located downtown. It seems that the criminals took over the facility. There are rumors that all the staff were being used to bait the zombies or simply tossed out of windows to the hordes that surrounded the building. Fortunately, that building was dev-astated during the fires. She doesn’t know how many escaped…if any.
(Once again this has me thinking about Paul.)
I must say that of all our new arrivals, Kim is one of the most welcome sights. She is a nurse. Dennis almost cried when she told us that she had spent the last two years at Rose City Memorial as a trauma nurse. She doesn’t like to talk about her last days at work. That made me wonder what Erin must’ve seen those final days. Maybe once she’s been here a while, I’ll talk to Kim. If I explain about Erin, then perhaps she’ll open up.
Saturday, February 23
It has been raining hard all day. People are getting on each other’s nerves. Reggie took me aside and said that a few people were overheard talking about leaving. She said that while we are surviving…this is not living. She feels like, if we can get away from the cities, we might be able to find a better life. She all but asked me to come if/when this exodus takes place.
Funny, but even after hearing some of Kim’s horror stories…even after that terrible fiasco during the medicine run…I understand what Reggie is saying.
I remember how grateful I was when I not only found this place, but for the people here. Still, we’ve walled ourselves in. I may not be a chicken in a coop…but have I fooled myself into thinking that being “free-range” is the same as free? Those things outside are not going away. What if some unforeseen disaster like an earthquake were to strike?
I realize that such a disaster may seem far-fetched…but nobody predicted the dead rising to eat the living either. There are no certainties. I can either sit here and await the hand of fate. Or, I can try to take up my own path and see what happens.
That is something to sleep on.
Sunday, February 24
I’ve decided to leave. I took Reggie up to the roof to tell her. Then she let me know who else wanted to leave.
Apparently Tim Delegan is not of the same mind as Pete Crenshaw. He wants to stay on the move and says that he has no qualms about us leaving in one of the vehicles he helped build. But, he doesn’t want to leave with more than ten people. He said that two weeks of having seventeen people inside was more than he could stand. Plus, it made supply grabs more frequent. Only two others from his group want to leave. We must be careful who we ask because of the potential reaction.
So far it is Tim, Greg Chase—one of the new arrivals—a thirty-two-year-old bartender, about six-foot-five, black, with a shaved head, Antonio Rosillo—the other of the new arrivals—a short, stocky-in-a-muscular-way, Hispanic migrant-worker, Samantha Anderson, Rodney Bloss, Reggie, and me. We all met in one of the warehouses and decided that there was no reason to waste time. We will leave tomorrow.
* * * * *
Monica came to my room right after Samantha, Rodney, and Reggie left. She asked me what was going on. Nothing seems to get by that lady. I decided not to lie.
Monica never tried to talk me out of it.
Of course I asked her if she wanted to go. She said that she belonged here. Tom is a strong imposing figure, but he relies on her. She told me that if I was in the area ever again, I should stop in and visit. She gave me a big hug and left.
She never did say “goodbye.”
Monday, February 25
Things don’t often seem to happen the way you pl
an. We are parked on a hill that looks down into the town of Pendleton. Tomorrow will be a busy day. But for now, I’m sitting here with a child curled up and asleep on the floorboard of the passenger’s side, trying to make sense of things.
It all started so smoothly. We met up after everybody was asleep. Rodney was on watch with Samantha so we knew that we had one less problem to deal with in leaving. The decision to wait until close to sunrise would mean that there would be only a minimal amount of time with nobody on patrol, and since it was unlikely that anything would happen…we felt okay with our decision.
Everybody had small packs with things like a couple days food, a few bottles of water, and maybe a personal item or two. We were equipped with assorted clubs, knives, axes…basic defense items. I was the only one to bring a gun, my trusty 9mm from the last time I left. Tim said there was a small assortment of guns and ammo in the RV so there was no reason to deplete the supply at the complex.
I was to be the last one up the ladder. Then, I would tip it back, hop over to the RV, and with everybody inside, we would roll out before anybody was the wiser. It was all going just like clockwork. No problems.
As we started backing up, I heard a scream. We all rushed to window slits peeking out at countless zombies clawing at the side of the vehicle. Now, I’m thinking that this is a new trick…like that creepy baby-cry sound. Then we heard it again as we cleared the main cluster of zombies. It was coming from the roof!
Tim was turning us for the road, and in the glow of our headlights, a few folks from the complex could be seen on the tops of a couple of the trailer rigs waving their arms frantically and jumping up and down. Tim said something about how it looked like they were taking our leaving pretty badly. I climbed up, gun drawn, and opened the roof hatch, scanning as fast as I can. I was certain one of those things would be there to grab me. That’s when I heard this trembling voice crying my name.