Living With the Dead: The Wild Country

by Joshua Guess

  It was a deer, all right. And four zombies took it down in about twenty seconds. One startled it, flushing the animal out into a small copse of trees, and another popped out in front of it to make it stop. That was when the other two hit it from the sides, breaking the poor thing's legs and tearing into its flesh.

  Apparently, those particular zombies are pretty fucking strong as well. Deer are all muscle.

  The hunters (huntresses?) made a quick and quiet retreat back to Sparta, where they reported the odd behavior. That was a few days ago, and further observation has proven this to be a trend in the area rather than a one-time thing.

  Coordination like this would only be truly dangerous for a person alone, unarmored and unarmed. I don't know any survivor anywhere that would be out alone without protection and something bite-proof on. So I'm not as much worried about the activity itself as I am what it portends.

  We've dealt with marauders. That's had its ups and downs, but generally their numbers are so small compared to the rest of us that they aren't a threat to any given group of survivors. We've faced a lot of threats, and until now I thought we had the primary one, zombies, under control. The rules are changing right in front of us. We can't be sure of anything anymore.

  Some of the worst damage done to my own home was at the hands of Smarties. The major attack this summer was run by a small group of maybe fifty smarties somehow commanding a horde of over five thousand regular undead. Fifty moderately intelligent beings, and the force they brought against us was nearly fatal.

  You know what I'm thinking. I'm imagining what even fifty VERY smart zombies could do. Just by themselves. Worse would be their capabilities when blessed with a contingent of extra tough or strong zombies. Or ones that can work together seamlessly. Or god knows what else.

  It's good that people are being proactive. I'm glad to see we aren't brushing aside the threat or marginalizing it. Survival is a long-term game.

  One I intend as many of us as possible to win.

  Wednesday, October 12, 2011

  Snared

  Posted by Josh Guess

  I went out with a group of hunters this morning. I'll say this: the people of Sparta may only hunt seasonally, but they know their craft well. We brought down two deer, three ducks, several rabbit, emptied a dozen traps that contained squirrel...and we caught ourselves six marauders.

  The last were an unintended bonus. We caught them releasing several prisoners. The ladies I was hunting with questioned them very, very carefully.

  It turns out that many groups of marauders keep in touch with each other quite often. They wouldn't divulge the details of that, at least not when I was with them, but whatever means of communication they're using is faster and more reliable than the system of coded symbols left behind as messages to other marauders that swing through a given area.

  The ones we nabbed this morning had the bad luck to be passing through. The central living area of Sparta is very well hidden, almost impossible to see until you're within a hundred feet of it. The marauders thought they were moving through an area bereft of human beings. That we happened to see them offloading their unwanted captives was a stroke of luck.

  These particular men are part of a larger group. The locals have them locked up for now, waiting to see if their friends come looking for them. While they're...guests here, the leadership of Sparta has given Mason and Will permission to be present and participate in the questioning. That's going on right now. Mason will send Will out to update me when and if he hears anything of interest.

  Steve, Courtney, and Becky are all out on a scouting run into the countryside. They want to see if the local zombies are developing any new traits aside from learning to work together. Steve is in charge of their group while they're out, though that's kind of a loose term. All three can look out for themselves, and know how to work together. My team is practiced at that.

  I'm interested to see what Steve and the others find, and equally curious what the captured marauders have to pass on to Mason and Will. Given the state of the captives the marauders let go, I'm not inclined to believe they were being compassionate. The poor souls were almost starved, and their clothes were basically just rags. They had no food, water, or tools. They would have been lucky to last the night. Very lucky.

  Still, the freedom to walk the world without fear of abuse...I imagine those folks would have seen their last hours as the best in their lives. We found them, brought them to safety. They're having a hard time understanding that Sparta is somewhere they won't be molested or beaten. It's so much more than they probably hoped for.

  It's looking like the marauders were doing their best to look like anything but what they are. Letting those people go, in this case, appears to be self-serving. I'm hoping for better, that there was some kind of moral imperative, but I doubt it.

  Hey, maybe Steve and the girls will find a nice cluster of hungry zombies that know how to work together. It would be interesting to see how they function against living, thinking human beings. The six marauders should make adequate test subjects.

  Here's hoping the leaders here find those half-dozen guilty. You know...for science.

  Friday, October 14, 2011

  Blame The Walrus

  Posted by Josh Guess

  Rachel made an excellent comment on my last post. She pointed out the importance of maintaining our humanity, in believing that even people who've done the terrible things the captured marauders have done might be helped. She posed the possibility that they're sick...or maybe they aren't.

  I was angry and hurt when I wrote it, and if one lesson has shone forth in the last year and a half, it's that the worst thing we can do as survivors is to forget our most basic humanity. Those men will be tried for their crimes. I'm not saying that killing them is wrong, I still feel it's completely deserved. But there is a difference between killing men in the field who are actively holding captives and killing them while they're captives themselves.

  I was upset, but I blame the walrus.

  That's an inside joke among my team. As I was thinking about my rash words the other day, so casually suggesting throwing those six men to a pack of zombies out of hand, I felt guilty. I got my head on straight, tried to remember the basic but vital differences between Us and Them. No false modesty here: I think people like me, who've tried to help as many others to survive as possible are just better people than marauders. We have a moral line that we try not to cross.

  And honestly, sometimes it's the little things that keep me from slipping across the line. Enter: the walrus.

  When we set out on this trip, the necessities of the journey meant that creature comforts would have to be limited. None of us brought books to read, or virtually any personal items. Space in our trailer is cramped and weight is an issue. Our tiny traveling world is bare.

  On the second night out, Becky and I were jammed onto the tiny bed while Will was driving. She and I aren't strangers to sharing a mattress, as she often crashed on my giant bed back home with Jess and whoever else might have needed a place to flop at my house. Funny how desperate times breeds new comfort levels...

  So the limited sleeping space wasn't really an issue. Becky and I share warmth and space. Will, unfortunately, wasn't paying much attention to the road for some reason. He hit a big pothole, and the trailer actually bounced. We were thrown off the bed, which flipped over on top of us. Only our dignity suffered wounds. We are, after all, survivors of the zombie plague. Hardened colonists in a frontier of the dead. It was clearly below us to have our asses handed to us by a bed.

  Beds are tricky bastards.

  As we untangled ourselves and straightened out the trailer, Becky noticed a stowaway. It was a small stuffed walrus. Someone had put it under the hard board the mattress was mounted on. No idea who.

  I made my way up to the cab of the truck, and harangued Will about his driving. I didn't realize I still had the walrus in my hand, Becky having handed to to me. Will took being berated by a stuffed-
animal wielding, sleep deprived maniac with stoic passivity, then calmly said the following:

  "Don't look at me. Blame the walrus."

  I laughed. Totally out of proportion to the hilarity of the statement, I laughed. I had tears in my eyes.

  Since then, when something goes wrong, "Blaming the Walrus" is an acceptable option. It isn't always used. The timing and situation are critical. It makes us laugh. It's a silly, irreverent thing, more suited to small children than my team, or so you'd think.

  The whole idea of it strikes me as something special and important. Just as the walrus shows that we consistently refuse to give in to despair at the state of the world or the difficulty of our lives, choosing instead to find laughter and light where we can...

  ...So does treating even the worst of men and women with a base level of respect and due process show that we are, at least in some small way, different than they. Better. We have to choose as honorable a path as we can. Rachel was right, completely. We have to take a stand somewhere on the right side of honor.

  Survival is not enough. Our choices bring meaning to our struggle. They should be the right ones, that can be looked back on with pride.

  Saturday, October 15, 2011

  Common Cause

  Posted by Josh Guess

  So much of our time is spent moving from one place to another that it's hard to find a moment to explain the variety of people we find at the communities of survivors we visit. That was a thought I had when I woke up a few minutes ago, and the next thing that went through my head was somewhat enlightening:

  It's our similarities that are more important.

  Every survivor is unique. When we clump together in groups, common cause tends to shape the attitudes of the individuals. A lot of what makes up the personality of the various communities is external; the number and frequency of zombie attacks, how safe their fortified home(s) may be. Access to food and water is a big factor. The easier those are to attain, the more relaxed and easygoing the people tend to be. The people of Long Town, for example, had a fairly secure wall, which made them relatively trusting. They were polite and courteous toward us, yet not generous. Their food was limited, so they made it clear from the get-go that we'd have to fend for ourselves.

  The commonalities are just as interesting an probably more vital to cooperation. Every place we've been, there has been an almost palpable sense of community. A general feeling of affection and even love between the people. It's not hard to figure out, we've all felt it and seen it. Soldiers have always grown bonds between them in battle. Survival requires the conscious choice to risk your life for another, and they for you.

  Humanity is unique in the animal kingdom, because we've moved beyond the lower-brain instinct to feel loyalty, at most, at the herd level. Right now we're threatened by the zombie hordes, our fellow men, hunger, weather, disease. Those immediate factors push us to feel more strongly toward the close group around us.

  I have simple goals for this mission. Well, simple in theory, maddeningly difficult in reality. Trade between the surviving clusters of people is necessary. We have to work together to survive in the long term. We need more than that. We need to recapture that wide-sweeping urge to see all people do well. Survival of the species, not just the tribe.

  We're all people, after all. We face the same threats and hardships. We see it more and more every time we stop. I told you all about the walrus yesterday, but there isn't enough time in the world to tell you about even half of the tiny but crucial interactions between the people we've met. All the jokes and shared stories, the smiles and commiserations alike.

  I can't be any more plain. These are people. Flesh and bone like all of us. Every one of them deserves a chance at life and to find happiness in a dreary, dangerous world. I've met so many of them, most for only short periods of time, yet I feel that urge to protect. To do what I can to make things better.

  This isn't just a trade mission anymore. It's growing into something bigger. More important. That could just be my ego talking, trying to make the miles and danger and time away from home seem worth it.

  But I'll tell you this: I've made a few trade agreements with Sparta that benefit them more than us. Because the vital resources they lack are very dear to them, we're giving a little more. And they know it. They know I did what I could to help them, backed by my people in New Haven. They're grateful. We're glad to help.

  Our medical supplies might save the lives of their children. A small act of kindness goes a long way. We've seen how badly that can go lately.

  I'm thrilled to see some positive results now, too.

  Sunday, October 16, 2011

  Cannibal Corpse

  Posted by Josh Guess

  We're at our next stop, a community that's set on top of a tall shelf of rock only approachable on one side. The residents call it Black Mesa. It's not actually a mesa, but it's almost as defensible as one. Some of you will recognize the name Black Mesa from the Half-Life series of video games. The locals took to the name with abandon, and for a pretty good reason.

  hey're almost all teenagers.

  There are a few people over twenty here, but all of them are in their late thirties or better. Maybe ten or fifteen out of more than two hundred and fifty people. The rest are all twenty or less. These folks are what remains of an evacuated school. The adults are teachers and one of the vice principals, who made the choice to stick with their students when the evacuation order came instead of trying to make it home.

  The mesa (that's what I'll call it for lack of a simpler term) used to be a very large hill. It's been blasted away on three sides, turning it into a raised plateau twenty feet high at the lowest point. It's very, very big. It was part of a development site for a shopping center that had ceased construction due to the worsening economy. The military, I'm told, stocked it with weapons, a temporary wall across the narrow band of ground still connecting it to the large field it's located in, tons of rations, sleeping bags, and the like. Its proximity to the school made it a perfect evacuation point for the kids.

  Things didn't go as planned. When the order to run came, the army was supposed to be manning the mesa. They weren't. No one knows why. More than two thirds of the students who ran from the school died, either on the run there, from injuries shortly after, or during the last eighteen months.

  Those left behind have done amazing things to stay alive. This place has had a lot of work done to it, but to be honest it wasn't even our next stop until the rash of strange mutations in the zombie populations became known. We were heading to a place farther west, but when the kids here finally managed to get a message out, the contents sent my team and I running as fast as we could.

  Communications with Black Mesa have been limited and short. We've known a group was here, but they're self sufficient enough that they haven't asked for any help from outsiders. They're frightened and young enough to be terrified about giving away the fact that half of them would still be minors if the world hadn't come to an end.

  They didn't call us for help, or for trade. They called because they've seen something so potentially dangerous that they were willing to risk exposing themselves to get the news out.

  Here, they have zombies that eat other zombies. That's completely new. Until now we thought it wasn't possible, that the flesh of the living dead was somehow incapable of sustaining another zombie. We've only been here since last night, but we've seen it happen right in front of us. It isn't just a matter of one zombie tearing another apart. That would be bad enough. No, what I witnessed was more horrible...

  You see, we've theorized that the organism that reanimates the dead somehow communicates from host to host, keeping them from eating each other. Likely through smell, since that seems to be the most powerful sense they have. I watched a group of three zombies corner a fourth against a large boulder. For a few seconds, they all stood there, the three gazing with empty eyes at the one.

  Then the lone zombie began to thrash where he stood.
After a few moments it looked like he'd begun bleeding through his skin. I was watching the whole thing through binoculars, and it wasn't that far away. It took me a bit to realize what I was seeing wasn't blood. It was pieces of the organism animating the zombie, forcing its way through the thing's muscles and skin. Trying to escape? Looks likely.

  Then the zombie fell over. Totally motionless. It didn't twitch as the others tore it to shreds. If you aren't breaking out into a cold sweat right now, you may want to reread this post and think hard about it.

  There are still millions of them out there. Many die off from lack of food, a greater number go into hibernation to conserve the reserves of protein they keep in their bellies. Far more of them simply slow down when starvation begins to set in, barely getting by on whatever scraps or animals they can find. The thing is, even a recently fed zombie is always hungry. And if they can eat each other now, a plentiful source of very easy food, they'll be at the peak of their strength and speed (and god knows what other advantages the damn things are evolving) when they come for the gourmet dish: us.