Zomblog

by T. W. Brown

  Sunday, September 7

  Crossed into Oregon just before sunrise. We are in an extremely overgrown field atop a hill looking out over nothing. We will be on I-84 first thing in the morning.

  When the sun rose, we could see what had to be the town of Hermiston just to the east. Something really bad happened because the area is completely leveled. Burned to the ground. Karen and Snoe slipped out for a while and came back to tell us that it is even worse than it looks from this distance. But that it is cold which means it’s been that way for a long time.

  Monday, September 8

  Leaving the charred remains of Hermiston behind lifted a weight that I didn’t realize was hanging over me. To see someplace so utterly destroyed was more upsetting than I realized.

  We ran into our first real problem at about 3 a.m. this morning. As we approached Boardman, our easy drive got nasty. A big section of I-84 is just gone. That meant we had to sort of go off-roading. That slowed us way down as the RV and the tanker struggled in places.

  Snoe would drive ahead in the Bradley and scout the best route, then we would follow. It was like leapfrog without leaping. The rest of us would wait for her to radio back. That drew more attention than we’ve had in quite a while, not counting the city drive-thrus. My shoulders ache from wielding the bat.

  Dominique gave me and the others a bit of a scare. We were all dispatching a group of twenty or so that were surrounding the RV. For some reason, those things are more attracted to this vehicle than the others. Anyways, we were on the roof, me and Dominique and Tara, acting as a distraction so that Cera and Brittany could move in from behind and take them out. As usual, her fearless—bordering on reckless— attitude had her leaning down, poking this one middle-aged man still wearing the tattered remains of a set of coveralls in the face. In a lunge that surprised all of us, it suddenly grabbed the baseball bat and yanked.

  I was helpless. I could only watch as she plunged head-first with a shriek. She landed on top of Coveralls-Zombie and the two vanished into a cluster of three others. Before I realized what I was doing, I stood up, yelling for Tara who was closest as I jumped off, hitting the ground in a crouch. I quickly dis-regarded our concern to be somewhat quiet and drew a Navy Colt .45 that I had on one hip. I fired point blank at the back of the head of what had once been a ten- or eleven-year-old boy with a crew cut.

  Dominique emerged from under Coveralls-Zombie. I noticed something shiny sticking out of the side of its head. Of course she was blood splattered and I just knew that my fears would be confirmed.

  After dropping the remaining zombies, we got back into the RV and Penelope helped Dominique get cleaned up; that allowed her to visually inspect her. Miracle of miracles, she was unharmed in any way!

  She is sleeping now. We are camped inside the relatively intact fence of some coal-based power plant. Low clouds are rolling in promising rain, and a steady wind is blowing. Every once in a while we go out and clear the area. The zombie traffic, while sparse, is surprisingly steady. We’ve been killing four or five an hour since we made camp. Some have come from the water.

  That is a bit disturbing.

  Tuesday, September 9

  Mortality seems to be a concept that Dominique now grasps. She has been considerably more quiet today. We rolled through Boardman, and from our best guess, we are now camped in what was one of humanities big jabs in the eye of Mother Nature…a waste management landfill. Three-quarters of a year has done nothing to improve the look or smell of this blight.

  You may wonder why we chose such a horrid place to camp when the whole of the countryside is at our disposal. Simple. It was the closest cover we could duck under when we heard the sounds of gunfire and a big black cloud of smoke snaked skyward from what Snoe says is a town across the river called Roosevelt. Here, I’ll let her tell you:

  “A big pleasure boat was coming up the river. I spotted it just as I pulled into this park on the river’s edge in Arlington. The bad weather was making it even more difficult to see so I was looking for a camping spot a little later than normal because we had some extra time before it got really light. I know the boat, or the people on it to be more precise, could not see me, so I was just watching to see what they might be about. I’m pretty sure they never even saw the six-pack of rockets that slammed into their side. That boat lit up the sky for a moment when it blew. In that flash of light I am pretty sure I saw at least twenty vehicles of all types and sizes parked in some sort of fenced lot as well as a sizeable amount of people.

  We are at a slight bend in the river, so this evening I will move along a ridge that gives me a good view and try to figure out if we should be concerned. If they are just some sort of group of survivors, there is little chance we’ll need to be looking over our shoulders tonight when we move out. I have no idea what the situation surrounding that boat is, and honestly I don’t care. As long as we can continue on our way without the worry of being pursued by anything more than the walking dead…I’m fine.”

  Wednesday, September 10

  Early this morning, while we were cautiously escaping whatever is happening in Arlington, we picked up a fragmented, static-filled radio transmission. I heard it. So did Caren, Tara, and Brittany. Each of us has a small, portable AM radio with a digital tuner. When we ride in the turrets, we keep them on and let them just scan. Until now, they just zoomed through the numbers on the dial. Tonight, they all stopped at 730 on the readout. I was able to make out only a few words.

  Afraid I might miss something (the others apparently felt the same way) I didn’t do anything for several seconds after the static overwhelmed anything else being said. Finally, convinced we’d lost whatever it was, I called for a halt. We backtracked to where we were approximately when the message was heard. We even found a ridge to drive up to off the main road and made camp for the night, but nothing else came through.

  Snoe says if it was a radio signal, it bounced off the atmosphere so it is hard to gauge how powerful the transmission was because I guess even weak signals can travel far that way.

  After talking about it we all agreed that we heard two things distinctly. “Las Vegas” and “power”.

  Friday, September 12

  We stayed put for two days and never got another hint of anything. I’m almost upset that Caren, Tara, and Brittany heard it. Had I been the only one, I could simply write it off to being delusional. Oh well.

  Tonight, we moved within sight of what could be another test. The Dalles.

  This small town had more than 10,000 people in it when things were “normal”. I think it is a good place to make a practice run on a supply grab. There should be plenty of stores, shops, and residences that will provide us with a chance to work on getting in and out with whatever objective we decide on.

  After a spirited and entertaining meeting of the minds, we decided on a rather unique set of targets. Seeing as how it is September, we thought it would be nice to grab school supplies. Paper, pens, books, the whole she-bang. Dominique even wants to pick out her notebook. The other part of our run is less glamorous, and it came about during a conversation that took place after we were sure the youngest adventurer was asleep. Without a man, each of us would like to find a suitable “replacement” of the battery operated variety. Also, liquor. While it may seem selfish, and even a bit careless, we’ve decided that, while the world may be dead, we are very much alive. After all, that is a part of why we left Irony…

  To live.

  Saturday, September 13

  There are survivors in The Dalles.

  Monday, September 15

  Morning

  We crossed The Dalles Bridge and are now entrenched in The Dalles Municipal Airport. We can’t say exactly who is on whose side yet. But, we do know that there are a few bands of survivors there, and we’ve seen them clash on occasions. The undead are thick here. I believe that is due to all the activity. It keeps them agitated.

  Snoe wanted to take US14 and just cruise the rest of the way to Portland
on the Washington side of the Columbia River. We voted. She lost. Everybody else is a bit excited about staying here for a couple of days. After all, if The Dalles is this bad, Portland should be insane.

  Evening

  This afternoon we watched a group of five people drive a grain harvester, one of those great big combines with the rotating blades in front, down a huge grassy hill. They were so intent on their objective that they never saw the two people who came running from what I had to assume was their hide out.

  We all watched helplessly as the couple, probably trying to join up with the group in the combine, ran past the scattered zombies that had turned and walked heedlessly into the whirling blades that would scatter their remains in gore soaked bits and chunks. The couple, a man and woman, were easily dodging the zombies as they closed in on apparent salvation. Unfortunately the man stumbled, sprawling out of site in the tall grass. Some of the zombies close to the couple changed course. The woman dragged the man to his feet, but the couple had to run quick to avoid being caught. They veered right into the path of the combine.

  I don’t think the folks driving and riding in the huge machine even know what happened. They reached the bottom of the hill and we lost sight of them as they ducked into what looks like an office complex of some sort.

  Other than that, we heard gunfire a few times and just before sunset there was an explosion in a residential area just south and west of town.

  Our airport terminal is easy to defend. We’re up high so the stench-bags don’t notice us. There are twenty or so around each of our vehicles making a fuss. I guess they think we’re still inside.

  Tuesday, September 16

  A caravan of makeshift armored vehicles rumbled down I-84 just after 10 a.m. They had the look of a band of pirates. Large, black, skull-and-crossbones flags waved from poles and antennas to really complete the image. Of course the flags were very redundant here. When several of the vehicles have a collection of heads mounted on the bumpers and a few of the trucks had cages in their cargo area with living beings chained inside, it is clear that this is a group intent on living out some sick, twisted Road Warrior fantasy.

  Thankfully they didn’t seem interested in The Dalles and methodically plowed through the undead welcoming committee that greeted them on the interstate. Between road conditions and the walking corpses, their procession was forced to move at little faster than a walking pace.

  Interesting item of note: none of the living factions in town made so much as a peep. Obviously, whatever divisions exist, nobody wanted to deal with what looked to be a large, well-armed group of folks who most likely would act in as lethally a hostile manner to the living as they do the living dead.

  Wednesday, September 17

  Awoke this morning to screams that you instantly recognize as those belonging to somebody being eaten alive. No matter how many times you hear it, nothing liquefies your spine like that sound.

  I was the first to the window looking out towards The Dalles Bridge. I saw most of what happened.

  Three women…well…two were barely girls by the looks, were running across the bridge. None of them had so much as a stitch of clothing on them. I was so intent on watching them that it was a few moments before I noticed the group of leather-clad men atop a lone railcar. They were having quite a time by the looks of it. Slapping one another on the back, pointing and laughing it up as they watched. When the second runner, the oldest of the three, was pulled backwards by the hair and vanished under a dozen or so zombies, I actually saw them exchanging what looked like bottles of booze.

  They were betting!

  The third and final runner, a girl of no more than twelve, decided to take her fate into her own hands. By now, the others had joined me at the window and were involved in an argument about trying to rescue the doomed. That’s what they were. The young girl scrambled up onto the rail of the dull pink bridge and leaped. While the height was not too dreadful, her landing was. We watched and waited. Finally, we spotted her, face down, drifting away with the current of the Columbia.

  Still, it is what happened next that has us stationed so that we can watch all approaches. It is what we all saw and none dispute the danger which is why we made a few trips to the vehicles to retrieve large amounts of ammo, grenades, and two of our tripod-mounted .50 cals.

  The men looked seemingly right at us…then…they waved.

  Thursday, September 18

  This is no way to spend my birthday. The big 3-0. Not exactly living up to the dreams and expectations I had when I was growing up.

  Although, if I wanted, I could be part of the ruling clan of The Dalles, Oregon. It is unlikely that we would receive any resistance if we declared ourselves as such after today’s events.

  It seems that the men we saw yesterday were the largest group in this town. By best guess, they numbered about fifty. I will hazard a guess and say that they saw us at some point and only saw a handful of women and girls. I guess they didn’t see the firepower.

  They came at us around noon today. In pick-up trucks and flatbeds they came storming across the bridge. We let them get across before we opened up. Snoe and Brittany started things off with a quick volley of grenades that did most of our work for us. Then, from the roof, Caren and I opened with the .50 cals.

  It was actually quite anti-climatic. I’m sure that these redneck buffoons felt they had easy prey waiting. Snoe actually dragged a badly wounded survivor out of the wreckage. She’s been down in the baggage claim terminal “questioning” her captive for a few hours now. Every so often the screams are loud enough that we can hear them.

  Outside, things have been quiet. The zombies came in like crows after carrion to finish off anybody who may have still been technically alive after the brief engagement. Then, they wandered off. Some our way, others back across the bridge and into town.

  There has been not so much as a single gunshot from outside since ours echoed in the cool fall air. Perhaps the survivors are waiting for something from us after the vulgar display of firepower we put on.

  Friday, September 19

  All day yesterday, Snoe would come up and give us a briefing of news she managed to extract from her prisoner. Early this morning, she determined that there was no more information to be had. She apparently dragged the man outside and drove him to the bridge and shoved him out of the Hum-Vee. I guess the guy could only crawl from what Cera told me when I woke up. He barely made it ten feet.

  My hunches about these guys being the “evil overlords” of the area were correct. It also seems that they have a stronghold in some hotel in town. Most of their entertainment comes in the form of women and girls they’ve snatched up either from passers-by, or other local clusters of survivors.

  All but a handful of the gang were involved in yesterday’s attempt to storm our little location. Snoe, Caren, and Cera are now on a recon mission. It seems we’ll be liberating whoever is left before we continue our journey. We are on radio silence until midnight when they will check in and decide if this is doable.

  If we get the word, all of us are to pile into the Hum-Vee. Since Snoe has already driven the Bradley over and hidden it someplace, we will be directed to a pick-up site. From there…well. I’m sure Snoe will tell us what to do.

  I don’t really know exactly what that guy said, but she has taken this mission a bit personal. She’s not acting reckless, but she is definitely not acting normal right now. I will keep an eye on her, but of course, at this moment, she is out there. Among the living dead and the deadly living.

  Sunday, September 21

  Nothing went right. Snoe radioed us early yesterday morning. We did just as she’d instructed: We piled into the Hum-Vee and drove up to someplace called Kelly Viewpoint. She gave great directions. The problems started when somebody went on the offensive…against us!

  Gunfire from seemingly every direction came from the darkness. Instinctively, I swerved and ended up slamming through the front of what had to be an absolutely gorgeous house b
efore all this madness began. We had to abandon the vehicle then and there. Without night-vision goggles, it was a chilling sight to see hundreds of those damn things coming for us. You could hear their ghastly moans and the occasional baby cry (which still chills my blood) from every direction.

  With zombies coming en masse and fearing that whoever had opened fire on us was waiting to gun us down, we had to rely on hand-to-hand weaponry so we couldn’t be tracked by our gunfire. Of course if they (whoever they were) had night-vision, we’d be screwed. It seems they either didn’t, or, took off after we crashed.

  In the confusion, we all got separated. I ended up on the roof of a video store. One-by-one, as each of us reached relative safety, we had to get Snoe to come for us. Unfortunately, Dominique didn’t have a radio; Penelope’s broke, likely during the crash.

  It took all day, seeking out places where zombies were congregating. We did find some survivors of the City of The Dalles holed up in the city jail, but we were waved off. I guess they were fine with their situation. So, late yesterday afternoon as we were on the verge of giving up, Dominique came running out of a ranch-style house.

  Just before sunset, we found Penelope. Her entire left arm had been ripped away. Even worse, something had fed on the right side of her face. Most of the cheek as well as the right eye were blood-crusted, gaping holes.