by G. D. Lang
It stood up now, drenched in fresh warm blood. Steam from the deer’s wound bathed the zombie’s face and (I hoped) clouded its vision enough to ensure that there was nothing to see here, that I was no threat and it could get right back to finishing its meal while I calmly shit myself and attempted to huff it for the nearest tree. Instead, it sniffed the air and did something I hadn’t yet seen one of these things do. It bellowed; a disturbing bit of noise that had no business coming from anything even remotely human. Then it just stood there staring at me, waiting for me to panic. A few long seconds passed before I realized what was happening. Just as it clicked, I heard the footsteps behind me. It was calling for backup. Before I could turn around, a second zombie had bit angrily into the sheath on my back. Mistaking the leather for human skin, it began tearing at it, trying to get at the fresh meat and blood that it lusted after. I wanted to swing wildly with my machete but knowing how sharp the blade was I didn’t want to risk losing an ear or chunk of skull as I attempted to play a blind game of whack-a-mole with the zombie’s head. Instead I rotated my body as quickly as I could while bringing my right elbow with as much force as I could muster to land directly into the side of its head.
The sharp tip of my elbow connected with its temple, resulting in an audibly satisfying crunch followed by something I hadn’t expected. A split second after bone met bone, the zombie actually whimpered like a dog, as if it had actually felt the pain, before it tumbled to the ground in a heap. As it clumsily came to a stop, it looked up at me, a mixture of fear, confusion, and anger screwing into the undead lines in its graying, bloodied face. I was fairly certain I had just pissed it off and completely convinced that I would soon come to regret it. I quickly glanced back at the first zombie I had seen and my worst fears were realized. It no longer had any interest in the deer. At its current rate of speed, it would get to me in 10 seconds or less, guaranteed. The timer began counting down in my head as I turned my attention back to the closer one, raising my machete as I faced it. The look of humanity quickly faded from its face, replaced by the all-encompassing hunger of the beast within as it looked at the blade knowingly, as if it knew the machete’s purpose and the danger it possessed. Again, something I had yet to see in any of these creatures until right now. Either there are different types of them or they are all evolving. I couldn’t decide which scenario was more horrifying.
Eight seconds.
I attempted to slide the blade into its head as it got up but instead of getting straight up, it lurched forward slightly, sending the blade through its snarling mouth in a downward motion through the back of its neck, missing the spinal column and sliding out the back end like a skewer. The most unsettling part of this was that it seemed to take that action on purpose; accepting the collateral damage in an attempt to complete the overriding objective lain out by its apparent leader now closing the considerable distance between us with alarming swiftness.
Five seconds.
I could faintly hear the rustling of grass and pounding of footsteps behind me. I tried to pull the blade out but this dead fuck clamped down on it with the force of a German Shepherd, a knowing look in its eyes as it waited.
Two seconds.
I had no choice but to kick forward as hard as I could manage to create some distance as it stumbled clumsily backwards, falling to the ground once again. The timer screeched to an end in my head. I turned around just as the hunter approached the kill zone. My only weapon, a pillowcase hastily filled with canned food, rested near my feet. I gripped the end tight, the fabric tickling the inside of my wrist, and swung it as hard as I could in an upward motion just as he was certain he had me. I connected dead on with his chin. The force of the blow combined with his momentum sent him flying into the air as if he had just slipped on the mother of all banana peels.
Before it was afforded any chance at getting up, I bludgeoned it with my makeshift hobo weapon, smashing its head into hamburger, only stopping when the pillowcase finally ripped and the cans began to fly everywhere. I dropped what was left of the fabric and turned back to the skewered fuck who still laid claim to my prized machete clamped firmly inside of its jaws. It looked visibly upset as it stared down at what was left of its buddy. I took a step towards it and it caught me completely off guard by turning around and running for its undead life. I stared in confusion for a second but snapped out of it quickly when I realized he was getting away with the only weapon I had ever managed to have any proficiency with. I found a family sized can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew at my feet, and without much of a thought, picked it up and winged it in the zombie’s direction, nailing it in the leg just hard enough to affect its rhythm and send it horizontal once again, no doubt eating a handful of dirt as it thudded to the ground. I covered the distance between us with surprising speed and before he could manage to get up, I pinned its head to the ground with my boot, pulled the machete out of its mouth, bringing a few broken teeth with it, and methodically slid the tip through its temple, the honed steel cutting through the thin skull with almost no resistance. I scanned the landscape for any more sounds or movement and only after at least 30 seconds of looking and listening did I allow myself to relax.
The mere sight of these new breed of zombies would’ve been enough for anyone to just give up. Wave the white flag and say goodbye to this world forever. Especially when you’ve seen them in action like I have. Up to this point, the safety of knowing I could run from these things and survive was comforting but seeing how fast these two freak shows could run and how they seemed to actually be working together was enough for me to commit Hari Kari right here and now, disemboweling myself and letting the hordes eat me the easy way. The fiercest show of disrespect you could give any adversary; not allowing them the pleasure of killing you themselves. And the light in their eyes, the recognition that they seemed to have for their surroundings and what it all meant? I didn’t have words for that. Every other member of the undead up until this point just seemed to exist, shambling around until something caught their eye or ear. There didn’t seem to be any emotion other than a hunger that never seemed to be satisfied and a drive to pursue that hunger no matter the bodily cost.
These two had that brightest of lights behind their eyes. The hamster wheel was a bit rusty but it was turning. They had an understanding of their own existence and a drive to protect it. They looked as if they were being torn between two worlds. Their graying skin seemed to indicate that they were at a more advanced stage of decomposition but their bodies weren’t soft like the others I’d seen who still had more human looking skin. Their skulls still had some rigidity to them and aside from it being a creepy milky grey color the skin seemed taught on their bodies. Every other thing about them would suggest that maybe they had just been turned but I didn’t see any bite marks or mortal wounds anywhere on their bodies aside from the ones I gave them. I couldn’t make sense of it. But trying to make sense of anything that has happened in the last 3 days would prove to be an exercise in futility.
No sense trying to figure it out now. My mind no longer held the capability. I’m liable to have a stroke if I try and connect the dots on some invisible puzzle that would probably be over my head even if I could see it. I picked up the backpack full of freeze dried meals as I looked at the contents of the now bloodied pillowcase scattered about the forest floor. Most of the cans were studded with thickened blood, chunks of mashed brain and hair, and shards of skull and I wasn’t about to take my chances on what would’ve been considered a surplus of food given the amount that was already packed into the Jeep and the multitude of freeze-dried food in the pack. I contemplated taking the Spaghetti-O’s but then I remembered that I had a fresh can of corned beef hash waiting for me back in the bunker. With what I just went through, I’d say I more than deserved it. The Ranger tower could wait until my belly was full and my mind was a little less rattled.
Chapter 16
Corned beef hash, Codeine, and Bourbon: The breakfast of champions. The ones that are still living
anyway. Square-jawed stoicism and vigilant hyper-awareness were overrated. In an apocalypse, slightly dumb and comfortably numb was the way to go. This nightmarish road trip was dangerously close to screeching off the rails soon anyway. I may as well enjoy the scenery before I run out of track. The way I see it, it’s no different than all of those morons who would drive drunk and plow into a minivan filled with a family of 5 heading off to a birthday dinner at Chili’s. When all the screeching and booming stopped, who was usually the only person that survived? The one that was too fucked up to realize his life was about to end. It may not be fair but it’s still the truth.
I finished every last bite of my breakfast, savoring the salty fatty goodness as I watched the constantly changing and still live traffic cam footage populating every channel that came in. I drank until the images on the screen blurred slightly, like an old video game, I told myself. Escapist fantasy amongst an otherwise normal and mundane world. I almost believed it too. But no matter how much I numbed myself to my surroundings and to my inescapable fate, there was this tiny little miniscule niggling in the back of my brain. A tickle, almost, sending a message to the rest of my body. Something ancient. Something so intertwined with my DNA and so resolute in its message that I couldn’t ignore it. It kept flashing the same word over and over again, unwavering in intensity with no sign of letting up, I’m assuming, until I decided to heed it: Survive.
If only I had a way to tell that little bugger hiding in the recesses of my mind that I’m doing the best I can. In my own way. But right now I was more focused on taking what I assume would be the last comfortable and danger-free shit of my ever-shortening life. Corned beef always did do a number on me. Why do we love the things that hurt us most? There’s got to be a lesson in there somewhere. Maybe that’s why we all find ourselves in this position now. Who knows? Jesus, I think I just might be losing my mind.
***
With the maximum volumetric capacity of the chemical toilet properly and severely tested, I was finally ready to get to the damn Ranger’s tower. With everything that has happened, there better be a goddamn cure up there because the whole reason I’ve been forced to witness several Costco-sized barrels of death in the past 24 hours was the promise that the CB radio in that tower would give us some answer, some direction as to where to go and what to do next. Anything short of a warp pipe to a happier world filled with a 24-hour booze and pill buffet and devoid of anything “bitey” was going to be a soul-crushing disappointment.
I reached the tower, machete in one hand and Bourbon in the other, in what felt like 2 minutes but was probably more like 20, drug and alcohol induced hazes being what they are. The tower looked, I suppose, like a fire lookout tower ought to look. Four large wooden beams extending skyward towards a deck about 50 feet off the ground. A winding set of stairs in the center meandered up to the deck which had a small dwelling with windows on all sides. It looked much newer and more well maintained than the ones I remember when I used to hike Mt. Rainier, back in the days before drugs and video games were my main pastimes. The hike up was painful if not beautiful, the valley below becoming more and more visible as the stairs slowly took me above the tree line and I hoped above the stink of the undead that had begun to proliferate the lower elevations. Luckily, the deck was in fact devoid of any unwanted smells. I took a deep breath, wincing slightly as the pain in my ribcage sought to remind me of my impending mortality. A small price to pay for once again being able to take in the intoxicating smell of pine trees and just the slightest hint, I tried to convince myself, of ocean air. I sometimes forget just how beautiful my corner of the world really is. It’s a shame it took circumstances like these for me to actually get out and experience it once again. Though I suspect I’m not the only one who has started to think about the things I have still yet to do, the things I told myself that one day I would get to after some unnamed goal was reached in my life, some vague objective attained.
Adversity, it seems, has a way of winding its way through our neural pathways, snatching at every regret or bad decision we’ve ever made and focusing a blinding spotlight on them all at once. They become the only thing we see and if we’re not careful, they begin to define us. Or worse, they begin to dictate our actions to the point where we no longer focus on getting better because we’re too worried about not screwing up. But if there were ever a time to let all that go, to wipe the slate clean and redefine who we are? Shit, this would be it.
The inside of the tower was sparsely decorated but it did have a telescope, CB radio, a cot, and a large trunk filled with emergency rations and first-aid. It looked to me like no one had been here for quite some time. If there were only some way to raise the steps or block them in somehow I think I just might stay here. But the last thing I need is a couple more of those undead track stars creating a choke point on the stairs and forcing me to rappel down the side with the rope I spotted in the corner, which looked like it would be better suited to be used as fire kindling rather than being the main component in an ill-fated escape plan. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, I rooted through the trunk some more, looking for anything that may be of use but figured I’d leave the stuff for anyone else who might need it more than I currently do. I kept glancing at the radio out of the corner of my eye, almost afraid to look at it head on. As if it were some fiery light that would singe my retinas if I got too close, if I looked too intently. I’d never felt so mocked by an inanimate object in my life. The prospect of what could pass through those wires once I pressed the “on” button almost rendered me powerless.
I’d still never answered the question of whether I really, truly wanted to know what was going on. It seems so simple. Turn on the radio, listen for any news and maybe call for help if you were feeling lucky. Then all would be right in the world. Or at least as right as could be expected given the circumstances. It’s just that I’ve never been much of an optimist. Saying things like “everything is going to be ok” or “we’ll get through this” always seemed like a lie even before this whole zombie business got started. I’m sure most of those “glass is half full” jack-offs are knee-deep in undead shit by now anyway. Trying to convince yourself that things will get better, that there’s some rainbow around the bend even though you currently find yourself in a torrential downpour is just the sign of a weak mind. True strength, the kind that might allow you to survive a no-win situation just like this, comes from admitting that things can only get worse from here. It’s about submitting to the uncomfortable fact that your life means very little in the grand scheme of things and at the same time making the decision that you don’t care about all of that. That you’re going to make it no matter what. Even if you are only on the 3rd level of Hell and the final four levels are mocking you and drawing you closer with each passing minute. It’s no longer about delaying the inevitable. It’s about ignoring it altogether.
All that being said I still didn’t want to turn on that goddamn radio. Even as I walked over to it my hands clung defiantly to my sides, begging my brain to just let it go. To just walk away and hold on to what little sanity I still had left. Curiosity killed the cat after all. And the cat didn’t have to worry about other cats going feral all at once and trying to eat it. On the other hand, I’d probably regret it if I walked away without at least giving it a try. The “Not Knowing” part I could handle but the knowledge that I could’ve known? Well that might end up being a tough pill to swallow if I end up walking straight into the epicenter of this human butcher shop. If only there were a way to simply know which direction to head, without having to be reminded of the death, suffering, and slim to no chance of survival aspect. What I needed was a mall kiosk that told me where I was (Deep Shit) and how I could get to where I wanted (slightly less Deep Shit) as quickly and safely as possible. And while I’m reminiscing about things I’ll never experience again, I’ll take a steak sub and a freshly squeezed lemonade. If it’s not too much trouble.
***
With a heavy dose of reluctan
ce, I turned the power on and began scanning stations. Each one I tried was filled with static and garbled noise. Admittedly I had no idea how to use the damn thing but even dumb luck should’ve landed me on a few channels. I pulled open a drawer on the desk to find the instruction booklet which told me to turn to channel 9 for any emergency updates that may be available. I tuned it in and almost fell out of the chair when a voice blared through the speaker. It sounded as if it were in the middle of a recorded message telling the public just how fucked we all were:
“… over the skies of Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Atlanta, and Oklahoma City. Other major cities have yet to report as of this recording. The payload of these bombs is not nuclear but rather contains what is being classified as an unidentified biological weapon of unknown origin. What do we do know is that the contagion was initially airborne but is now being transmitted primarily through bodily fluids. The symptoms are varied but severe and include but are not limited to…”
I strained to listen to the rest of the broadcast as a sudden and violent rumbling overtook the inside of this somewhat precarious dwelling. The windows rattled as a low baritone hum seemed to blanket the landscape. I rushed outside, hoping the sound wasn’t what I thought it was. Peering out along the valley I saw a throng of military helicopters, cargo helicopters from the look of it, heading in the direction of the coast. The sky almost seemed blotted out for miles with what I assume was every helicopter available at the nearby Joint Base Lewis-McChord. They all seemed to be heading in the general direction of the coast, assumedly running from the horrors of the city with their tails between their legs, making sure anyone with high security clearance was out of harm’s way. I would count this among the multitude of things I had already designated as “not a good sign.” Several minutes passed as I watched the unending mass of military steel safely escort the people that mattered away from the panic and terror, leaving the rest of us on the fringes of Hell, fighting the good fight until we were unavoidably swallowed up by the nightmarish reality of the dead roaming the earth.