by Joshua Guess
Last evening I got to see it in action. I thought our people worked as a unit well, but not even our dedicated group of spearmen, our Spartans, match the average person here.
I've got a meeting in a few minutes, so I'll keep it brief.
We went out on a sweep of the surrounding area. For about a hundred feet in every direction is a flat, featureless plain. After that the terrain changes, trees and rocks as well as hills and folds in the land giving good hiding places for zombies. We weren't disappointed in our search. The group I went out with had fifteen people in it counting me, and when they saw the two dozen or so zombies, they snapped into formation.
Hollow square, four men on a side, two in the middle (three, with me there. It was snug.) It's a classic tactic, one my own people have used. The team all carried shields, shorter than I'd have expected, only about two and a half feet tall. What surprised me was that the shield wall guys worked together as a unit flawlessly. They made no mistakes, and didn't even have to use log weapons like spears to hold off the zombies. Their defense was perfect.
When the new breed zombies attacking thought to drop to the ground since the shields didn't go down very far, I was caught off guard again when the men on that side dropped with it, slamming the edges of their shields down on the attackers. Turns out those things are sharpened on the top and bottom for just such an occasion.
We were outnumbered, but practiced thrusts of heavy spikes by the defenders meant one shot, one kill. It was the best display of teamwork I've ever seen. I'm told that part of why people here have gotten so good is because before that wall was built, they had no other choice but to fight the undead hand to hand every time zombies wandered near.
That went on for a long time. Zombies wandering in the streets with only a narrow plank of metal-banded wood and a hand held weapon between them and the living.
Which leads me to wonder once again what happened to the children here...
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Good With the Bad
Posted by Josh Guess
The people of Georgetown adhere to a very strict schedule. It applies to all things--trading especially, but sweeps, mining shifts, food, and most other aspects of life here. Even our visit is scheduled closely: there are certain days next week that we've been asked to stay indoors during. Just for a few hours, early in the week on two separate days. Some of the local communities are apparently pretty worried about security. They don't want us seeing where they come from or where they go.
This morning wasn't such a day. I watched a caravan come in about an hour ago, twenty semi trucks full of food. It was a major delivery, one Georgetown only sees once every three months at best. These were winter stores, traded for raw iron to a group of survivors a hundred miles or so to the west.
It was a very orderly affair, including the cleanup of the fifty zombies that followed the trucks, as well as several that had stowed away under the trailers. Again my hat goes off to Georgetown--they handled the killing and cleanup of the undead with mechanical efficiency. I guess this happens a lot. With their ability to defend themselves so well honed, it's no wonder large groups of zombies no longer attack here.
The same discipline that serves them in fights and in running a tight ship also extends to punishment for people who fail to meet their standard. I had no idea when the shipment came in that there was a man missing from the welcoming committee Georgetown puts together for every group of transports. It was only after, when I saw the guilty party slowly walking toward the gate where the trucks were being directed through, that I became aware that something was wrong.
The man was clearly hung over, and the person in charge of overseeing the shipment had a very loud, angry talk with him. He wasn't belligerent or over the top, but more sounded like a military commander whose soldier had failed him. Disappointed him.
I watched the whole thing, listened to what they said. It was an educational experience. I'm not one to judge another community on how they carry out punishments for failing to comply with agreed-upon rules. If these folks have all decided that alcohol is not a good idea in the face of zombie swarms, that's their business. If the drunkard in question failed his duty because he broke the rules, I can't argue when he accepts the punishment.
Which, by the way, is three days in "The Box". After asking about it, one of the locals showed me.
The Box is a cinder block structure about five feet high with a flat aluminum roof. It's maybe three feet wide on a side, which means a man of average height wouldn't be able to stand or sit comfortably in it. People who go in there get no food but as much water as they can drink--there's a tap inside that's fed by the local well--and a drain in the floor for bodily waste. It isn't the most inhumane setup I've seen, but it's pretty bad.
Worse, when you realize The Box sits about twenty feet from where they process the iron ore. The heat is tremendous. The Box gets to about a hundred and twenty degrees inside on a bad day. I can't imagine anyone putting themselves in the damn thing by choice, but it's widely accepted in Georgetown. Failure to meet standards for safety of the group means time in solitary.
It makes my skin crawl. I know, I know, New Haven has some pretty brutal means of reminding people of the importance of the group, and I'm not judging. Maybe it was the years of training back in college, days spent wearing turnout gear as I learned what it was to be a firefighter, but I just hate the idea of crouching uncomfortably in a little stone shack, cooking for days on end.
I can only theorize what must have happened to these folks to drive them to such extremes. Whatever it was, it had to have been horrible to degrees that I can't fathom. I'm feeling sick just thinking about it.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Third Law
Posted by Josh Guess
Newton's third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I'm a physics nerd, but I wish Newton had spent a little time studying people. Sometimes what should be equal and opposite reactions are a bit...uneven when it comes to people.
In the middle of the night, I heard that clanging of bells. From the sound of it, a few dozen of them. There's electricity here, but it's limited and not enough to power floodlights. So the people of Georgetown set up an ingenious early warning system: bells hooked up to tripwires.
We were told within the first ten minutes of being here to listen for the bells, what they meant. So when the team and I heard them, we reacted. We've been warned not to try to insert ourselves into defensive formations, for our safety as much as the people in them. We haven't drilled with them and would probably throw their rhythm off.
Fortunately, the company that built this place back before The Fall wasn't very creative with the housing they put in place for the workers. The on-site dwellings are uniform and flat-roofed, and the Georgetown natives were smart to choose to live in them and build their wall nearby. We climbed onto the roofs, the team and I, and used our bows to great effect.
From our perch on the roof closest to where zombies were coming over the wall, we could see the field. A few men had set up large, battery powered lights. New Breed zombies were moving across the land outside, repeating their trick of dragging and carrying long pieces of trees with them. Groups of them set the logs against the wall, running up them and leaping over the wicked spikes on top of the barrier in front of them. The section they'd chosen to attack had fewer defensive measures on top than others. A weak spot, one I'm sure was deliberate to invite attack at a place where the inner defenses were strongest.
My team and I, using our bows, had good luck picking off zombies as they ran toward the top of the wall. After a few minutes I noticed other groups doing the same from other rooftops. They even threw us more arrows when we started to run low.
Seeing the wall was covered, I ordered the team to start choosing targets down below. Enough zombies managed to get over the wall that the fighting had spread more than fifty feet in toward the center of town. We had to be careful,
obviously. We didn't try to take down any zombies that were actively engaged with defensive groups.
At least, not until a few of the zombies started running up the backs of their counterparts and landing inside the hollow defensive squares. Then we didn't have much choice.
It was a bad night. We finally cleared them, but Georgetown lost twenty people. The survivors seem as stoic about their losses as they are about everything else. I haven't seen a tear fall yet.
It's disturbing.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Birthday Bash
Posted by Josh Guess
Yesterday was my birthday, the second I've had since the zombie plague came. It was also one of the days we were asked to stay inside while a shipment came. We complied, obviously--we have no desire to antagonize our hosts. Not only for the sake of fanning the flames of friendship we've started here, but also for practical reasons: we really want to trade for metal at some point. Eventually the easily recycled stuff will run out, and iron will be a much needed commodity.
From what we could hear inside the small home we're staying in, things didn't go smoothly. There was a lot of muffled argument filtering through our windows. We couldn't make out the words, but the tones were extremely harsh. I didn't hear any fighting erupt, but then the visitors and our hosts were moving as we heard them. Anything could have happened a hundred yards away and we'd never know about it.
That said, none of the natives seem concerned. No one looks like violence happened yesterday. No one seems upset. So either nothing happened, or the people here are universally unconcerned with it. I give that a small chance of being the case, and that only because Georgetown is culturally pretty stoic. Restrained.
We made the best of it, though. Will and Rachel had the forethought to bargain for some supplies, trading an extra bow for cake mix, milk, eggs, and a can of icing. Bill, it turns out, loves to bake. The mental image of the wandering preacher, a tough as nails, desert-tanned zombie killing machine and survivalist, will forever be marred by the actual memory of him humming as he moved about the kitchen making my birthday cake.
It was a pretty good cake, too.
I wasn't expecting presents, but again I was surprised by my team. Will gave me a weapon he traded for here in Georgetown--a steel spike, about a foot long, with a grip on it and a guard to keep my hand from slipping down when I use it. The hilt is tapered and has a split chisel tip, which lets me use it as a pry bar.
Bill made the cake, which was present enough. Rachel gave me a small journal she'd written a story in, just for me. That's a hell of a thing. Steve, who has a lot of practical experience with massage therapy, worked out some of the kinks in my upper back. Becky gave me three homemade grenades. She's so sweet.
We sat in our little house and played games, talked for hours, and ate food. For a time we weren't teammates, survivors, or any of that. We were just friends. Five who knew each other well, one who we enjoyed getting to know a little better. Those kinds of days are much more rare now, but they're so much sweeter for that. It's been a long while since I've felt...how do I put it? Special? Pampered? I'm leading the team, so I'm usually the center of attention, but it was really nice for it to be a wholly positive and stress free kind of attention for once.
I'll fully admit, it was nice to have what felt like an old-school birthday. For the day to be just about me. Everyone had a good time, and I'm thrilled about that. I love seeing people smile and have a good time, and the memory of my friends, old and new alike, sitting around a table together with no concern more pressing than making each other laugh is one that will sustain me. One I will cherish.
It was a good day.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
A Day Like Any Other
Posted by Josh Guess
Today we don't get any turkey, pie, mashed potatoes, or any of the other delicious things that usually go along with Thanksgiving. I wouldn't even have remembered it was today if Rachel hadn't reminded me.
It doesn't bother me anymore, losing the holidays. Thanksgiving is important, but the longer we manage to survive in this new world the more I become convinced that just as society has changed and begun to evolve in a different direction, so must the old things eventually fade with them.
So today I'll think about all the people back home I miss, and reflect on how thankful I am for the members of the team who remain. Not to mention Bill, a new friend and companion.
Really, I'm thankful for a lot. I wasn't intending this post to be a predictable list of those things, but I guess it's sort unavoidable given the season. I'm happy and grateful for the people of Georgetown, who have been courteous, polite, and helpful toward us. The zombie plague has had hundreds or perhaps thousands of secondary consequences including distrust of strangers. For these people, as it is with many, this is especially true. For them to allow us to stay for so long, to work with us fairly, is amazing.
At the same time, I'm really happy that there's no prohibition against us fraternizing with people. The man thrown into the box the other day, whose name is Greg, is one of the few people here who will talk to us openly. He doesn't have the guarded demeanor most of the natives share. I've tried to ask him about some of the more curious elements we've noticed around here, but he didn't seem comfortable talking about a lot of that.
He's really personable as long as the conversation stays away from what are apparently sore subjects like the lack of children and pregnant women here. He's funny and expressive, and he's a demon at playing cards. He spent a while with us last night. I didn't smell any booze on him, so maybe his days in the box helped him kill that demon.
We should be wrapping up here in the next day or two. We've actually already finished hammering the trade deal out, the team and I are just waiting on a group of traders to come in tomorrow from our next stop on this leg of the trip. We'll be following them home, and their business here won't take more than a day. I'm happy with what we've done here, and happy to be moving on to the next stop.
The only concern I have is that the part of the country we're headed into is very heavily populated by zombies. Worse, it's painfully clear that the new breed is spreading quickly and is going to cause problems for us. They're already causing disruptions in the local trade, and it isn't going to get better as they spread.
We'll fight them, of course, but they're strong, clever, and difficult to kill.
So I guess more than anything this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for long-range weaponry and well-calibrated sights.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Troubled Man
Posted by Josh Guess
The shipment to Georgetown came early and was unloaded very fast, so we're on our way. We just left Georgetown about fifteen minutes ago, and I'm running the generator for the transmitter while we're on the move. It's a nice alteration to the trailer a few of the metalworkers in Georgetown did for us as a parting gift, the only one they could give. Now the generator fits into a snug port in the wall of the trailer, the controls on the inside while the exhaust stays out. There's even a sheet of metal to go over the hole for when we want to move it somewhere else. Even so, we won't run it long while it's in the trailer. I'd rather not risk it overheating or blowing up right next to my head, thanks.
Bill is still with us, but he's not himself. He isn't a sunny, happy kind of fella to start with. Think more in terms of a monk, calm and collected but not overly emotional about small things. That's why we're worried, because he's been brooding all morning about something, but he won't tell us what it is.
He spent most of last night talking with Greg in private. I wondered at first if perhaps Greg was looking for guidance about his drinking, maybe even having a spirited debate about religion with Bill. As the night wore on and we caught glimpses of the two men as we walked back and forth through our borrowed house, the less sure I was that either of those things were the case.
They talked in low voices almost the entire time. Once or twice, I saw a look on Bi
ll's face that could only be described as pure outrage. It isn't an expression that fits him well, like he's trying to mimic someone else's reaction. Eventually the conversation between them grew heated, moving into fierce whispering and tense body language. The team and I were on our toes in case things got ugly, but it never got that far. Greg left not long after their apparent argument, and Bill clammed up. We haven't gotten more than two words in a row out of him since.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed in the trailer, five feet away from me but a million miles from here. His head is resting at an angle against the glass, and the look on his face...the best word I can use for it is haunted. He's red-eyed and lost, and I don't know what to do for him.
I'll have to ask the others what they think, as discreetly as possible. I don't know Bill well enough to be able to get a good read on him, and I don't want to offend if I can help it. How do you go about helping a man so obviously depressed about something when you know he's the one who usually helps others? What do you say to him that he hasn't said a thousand times before?