Day by Day Armageddon

by J. L. Bourne

  Everyone smiled at that idea, but it goes back to having a limited supply of goods and the need to scavenge. We were safe for now, as all the noise our boat engine has been making on our fishing/scavenging trips has been fooling them to other parts of the island, but this wouldn’t last forever. We needed a more permanent place to live.

  We are all playing poker tonight as a morale booster. Lara, Annabelle, and “tubby” the teddy bear have other plans, they are playing house.

  Reflugence of Claudia

  March 18th

  2148 hrs

  We have been living off of fish the past few days. I found a propane cooking plate on one of the larger boats in the marina, and finally had some cooked meat. We have different food now. I ventured out on the island today with William. We took the Bahama Mama out west along the island coast to find some food. According to my map, Matagorda island is roughly 25 miles long and two to three miles wide. I thought about rigging a sound device up by remote as a distracter for these things, as to draw them to a certain point on the island while William and I explore other parts. John is working on the idea.

  William and I found something of interest today. We must have went ten miles west along the coast when something appeared inland behind some trees. It looked like some sort of tower. When we got closer, it became apparent that this was the island’s lighthouse. It was a large black spire rising up roughly one hundred and fifty feet with a large glass lens room at the top. At the base of the lighthouse stood the keepers home I assume. This area seemed secluded, but I knew it wouldn’t be longer than a couple hours before the sound of our engines would bring them to our general location.

  We dropped anchor ten feet from dry land. I jumped out into the ankle high water. It was warm. This area was more rural than the marina area. The upside to this is, less living population = less dead population. The downside was that the trees were blocking my view to most of the area around the lighthouse.

  William had gotten better with the .22 rifle the past few days. We were down to 700 .22 rounds for his weapon, and I only had 450 .223 rounds (a little target practice for me also). We crept up to the wooded area around the lighthouse. Something was making noise though. The closer we got to the structure, the louder the noise was. It was a constant, even interval banging noise, but still no visual sign of the undead. We were at the clearing. The lighthouse looked very old. I’m sure at one point its flat black paint was glossy, but years of salt air and rain have made their mark. The house attached to the bottom of the lighthouse seemed more modern. Three months worth of weeds and grass grew in the yard. The banging noise was obviously coming from the direction of the lighthouse.

  We moved in. I kept signaling him to check our flank, as to avoid a possible rear assault. —Bang Bang Bang The noise kept on, similar to the timing of a second hand on a clock. William and I walked the perimeter of the lighthouse/house. It was obvious the direction the noise was coming from. The basement access door on the backside of the house was shaking with every pound made below. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but I knew what was down there.

  I knew the door was secure (for some odd reason from the outside) and whatever was down there would stay down there until the door rotted of the hinges, or I let it out. We approached the front door to the house. It was not locked but the windows were boarded up, which for the life of me I couldn’t figure out. I carefully turned the knob and flung the door open and both of us jumped back, aiming our weapons. We must have looked ridiculous.

  The house smelled of rotting flesh. Not good. I almost wanted to say “fuck it” and just live off of fish for the rest of my life, but I was here, and we all needed food and supplies. The floor of this seaside dwelling was old and wooden. Every creek sounded like thunder. We were in the living room. I whispered to William, “Do you think there is a door to the basement inside the house?” He wasn’t sure. I hoped there wasn’t. On the floor I immediately noticed dried blood. It led to the hallway. Bloody handprints were apparent, and looked as if someone or something dragged itself into the hallway.

  I went first, and William followed. Rounding the corner to the hall, I noticed that the blood trail curved into what I thought was a bedroom. I followed it. Heart pounding, sweating, scared. I was at the door where the trail led. The door was shut, and dried bloody handprints were all over the bottom half of it. I listened and reached for the knob. No sound. I quietly turned the knob and opened the door an inch, and rot hit my nostrils. I could see a pair of legs clothed in dirty jeans lying on the bed. I walked in. I saw what was left of a man, I think. His plaid shirt and denim were caked with blood, and his head from the nose up was gone. Maggots infested the open wounds, and I could see his skin move from the crawling larva underneath.

  A twelve gauge hunting shotgun sat on his chest. Pulling the shotgun from his rotting grip, I noticed a yellow piece of paper with writing in black ink.

  I handed the note to William. None of us spoke for the next few minutes. The shotgun was a nice find, and so were the three boxes of shells on the dresser. We checked inside the dresser, in the sock drawer and found a .357 Smith and Wesson revolver with a box of fifty shells. Next was the kitchen. The canned goods, cooking oil and spices and anything else non-perishable were coming with us. There wasn’t as much food as I expected to find. The incessant banging kept on relentlessly. Claudia wasn’t giving up.

  I remembered seeing a wheelbarrow around back near the basement door. I took it to the front and William and I filled it with our findings. I told William my thoughts about the basement, and that there may be more food and weapons down there. We agreed to open the door and take care of Claudia.

  William volunteered to open the door and let me shoot. Carefully, he slid the “t-handle” lock up, out of the concrete sleeve, unlocking the door. The banging continued. She didn’t know we were here, she just knew she was hungry and wanted out. I dreaded the thought of looking at her.

  William grabbed the handle and was about to pull when I told him to wait. There was a safer way. I told William to find some rope or twine in the house. After a few minutes, he came back with a ball of knitting yarn from one of the spare bedrooms. I had him double it up and tie it to the handle and step back fifteen or so feet. I gave him the signal, and he yanked the doubled up yarn, pulling the door open.

  There she was rotted, putrid, evil. Her rotting milky eyes locked onto us and what was left of her lips curled back over her yellow, jagged teeth. Her hands were nothing more than bloody nubs from countless weeks of impact with the wooden cellar door. She lunged for us. Just as she reached the outside of the doorway, she tripped over the top step and tumbled face first into the ground. I took this opportunity to give her the peace that Frank could not. I shot the back of her head at point blank range, sending her back to her husband.

  The cellar was dark and foreboding. I switched on the flashlight mounted on my rifle. The bright LED light filled the stairwell. Giving my eyes a moment to adjust, I thought about what other horrors could or would be lurking down here in the bowels of this old lighthouse. I stepped down into the darkness and found no creatures, living or dead. Claudia was it. I called William down to help. There were countless mason jars filled with green beans, yams, and other vegetables. There was also a considerable wine selection, and more canned goods.

  It looked as if Frank and Claudia originally held up down here, as a bed, stove and refrigerator were in place and a Remington 7mm mag. hunting rifle with a scope sat barrel up, propped in the corner. On top of the refrigerator, were two boxes of 7mm shells. We took as much food as we could carry, along with the hunting rifle.

  We filled our packs with the food, weapons and ammunition. The majority of the goods we found went in the wheelbarrow. I took off my pack and told William I would be back shortly. I walked toward the lighthouse. I wanted to go to the top to get a better view and see if we could expect any company. Round and round I went up the spiral staircase to the apex of the spire.

  Reaching the top, I scanned t
he area. In the direction we came from, (east) I could see maybe twenty of those things milling about in a group headed our general direction. The sound of our boat and the gunshot were the catalysts.

  I judged by their current rate of movement that we had plenty of time to leave. I ran back down the stairs and William and I took turns pushing the wheelbarrow back to the boat. We loaded up the Mama and headed back home. We got lucky today.

  March 20th

  1517 hrs

  I just received a radio broadcast over the Citizen Band radio. The person claimed to be a congressman from the state of Louisiana, safe in a bunker a hundred miles north of New Orleans. His voice was rugged and tired. He went on to claim that he had many surviving soldiers of the Louisiana National Guard with him. The reason for his announcement was to warn any possible survivors of the threats posed by the radiation exposed undead. Apparently, New Orleans was destroyed in the strategic nuclear bombing campaign.

  The congressman had sent out scouts equipped with dosimeters and Geiger counters to survey the damage to the city and the undead ranks. Out of the ten sent out, six returned. The scouts reported to the congressman that the radiation riddled undead showed little signs of decomposition and were faster and more coordinated than their non-irradiated counterparts. The radiation was somehow preserving them. One of the soldiers even claimed that they thought they heard one of the creatures speak a simple word. Of the four scouts that were killed two of them died from being overran by a dozen radiated undead on the interstate outside of New Orleans. The other two died from radiation exposure because they unknow-ingly spent the night in a fire truck drenched with radiation as the other scouts slept safely in a concrete drainage pipe five feet underground.

  The congressman claims to have limited high-frequency teletype communications with a base equipped with squadrons of prototype UAVs and warehouses full of high-ordnance military explosives.

  According to the broadcast, EMP burst has rendered much of the non-shielded electronics around the devastated city useless. The scouts had no luck hotwiring cars or finding salvageable radio equipment. This is something that I will file into the back of my mind for future reference in the event my luck is bad enough to find myself inside the blast radius aftermath.

  John tried to respond to the transmission, however our low power transmitter didn’t have the juice to make it that far. Maybe on a low overcast, cloudy day —But not today. Just another thing to worry about.

  March 22nd

  1854 hrs

  Tara is an interesting woman. I have to hand it to her for surviving. I can’t begin to imagine her feelings of defeat as she sat in that compact car, and listened to them beat the glass for days. She told me that she spent one whole day attracting them to one side of the car, so that she could crack the window on the opposite side for a few precious seconds of cool air before they shambled back over. I haven’t seen her break down and cry yet, but it is a natural thing, and I’m sure it will come.

  Laura is in her own little world with Annabelle and her teddy bear. I have feelings of dread for the day that will come soon, the day we must move on. I somehow feel like I am responsible for everyone here. It would be too much to bear to lose any of them, however I know that sooner or later statistics will catch up with us. I have become decently good at chess and John and I are about fifty-fifty when we play.

  William woke up last night at around 0200. I was awake looking at the map. He told me that he dreamed of our lighthouse trip and that the woman in the cellar, “Claudia” didn’t trip in his dream. I thought about what he was getting at and just tried to put it out of my mind. I haven’t seen any of them since our trip. We have been successful in confusing them with our boat/gunshot noise diversions.

  No transmissions from Louisiana today or yesterday. We have been vigilant in having at least one person within earshot of the radio at all times. I have been in a slump since the lighthouse, so I decided to shave today for morale. Amazing how the feel of a good shave can make you feel more human.

  I have been thinking about how many of them there are. I wonder just how outnumbered we are and just how much of the professional military was left. I remember the last US census back in 2000 and how they claimed there were close to three hundred million people in the US. I have no way of knowing how many survivors there are, but I am certain that they outnumber us. I would say that the nuclear campaign cleared out a few million (including the living). I suppose I just don’t have enough data for any kind of accurate estimate.

  Drizzling rain dominates the visibility. Spring is coming and so are the storms.

  March 23rd

  1819 hrs

  We received another transmission from Louisiana. This time, it was very garbled. The voice on the other end claims that all communications with NORAD have ceased. The theory they are posing is that it probably fell from the inside. They are trying to hack a video feed from their command center north of New Orleans, however attempts to do so have proven unsuccessful.

  John is still drawing up some rough plans for a “distracter” to be used against the creatures. I also asked him to start thinking about a mobile way to charge dead batteries, as I feel that many of the car batteries on the mainland would be as dead as their owners. We are building the groundwork for escape and evasion. To where is not yet certain.

  March 24th

  2339 hrs

  We have not been affected by radiation fallout. We should avoid the former major cities, as I’m sure deadly amounts of radiation will exist there as evident from the reports of the dead scouts. There is also the matter of the other information received a few days ago from Louisiana. I can hear them moaning. The wind is carrying it and it feels like they are right outside the window. I know this is not the case, but the thought of it is very disturbing. It is not a human moan. It sounds like a deep throaty sound, low and unnatural. I need to check the perimeter.

  March 26th

  2003 hrs

  The creatures cannot swim, however they can “exist” in the water. It was clear outside today and the water was calm. We decided to go outside on the docks to get some sun. I brought my rifle in an attempt to make sure everyone was safe on our outing. Little Laura was looking pale from lack of sun and I just felt guilty that she never got any outside time. I stood, facing the shore as the others took off their shoes and let their feet dangle over the edge of the dock, into the water.

  As I scanned the shoreline, I saw no movement, vice the tormented creatures that were trapped in the hotel room across the street from our location. I checked back over my shoulder and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They were being quiet, and conscious of the dangers that lurked in the urban area around us. I looked down into the water and noticed something dark moving about under the surface. The dark green seawater restricted my visibility.

  I called John over, and told William to stay and watch the others, and to tell them to get their feet out of the water. On the wall of the marina was a round foam life preserver, similar to the ones seen on ships, and a lifeguard hook for grabbing people out of the water. I glanced at the hook and glanced at John. He brought it over to me as I continued to gaze into the green abyss. I saw it again. Something large was definitely moving under the surface.

  I had John grab my belt and hold me solid as I dipped the long hook into the water. I felt it hit the object. After a few minutes of pulling and tugging, I finally snagged it. As I pulled the rotting thing up through the deep, I lamented over all the fish we had eaten in the weeks prior that had probably fed on this man’s body. It was flailing and the mouth gaped and gnashed. As it opened its mouth in an attempt to take a bite out of me, I saw stagnant water pour out of the thing’s throat and a low gurgle ensued.

  It had no eyes, as they had surely been eaten by fish weeks before. This thing had been in the water a long time. I pulled it up onto the dock. As the torso cleared the water, it was apparent that the thing had no legs either. It was still dangerous so I decided to quietly dispatch it with a
careful knife stab through the left eye socket. Using the hook bar, I held the head still as I carefully slid the knife home, neutralizing the pitiful fuck.

  It would be a long time before I ever decided to take a leisurely swim in any body of water. I slid the dock bridge over to the land using the rope pulley. With the hook pole, I dragged the creature across the street as John covered me with his rifle. Laura saw the creature as I dragged the body away and started crying. I felt bad and hated the thing even more as I dragged the putrid mass across the ground. The corpse left a black stain on the concrete as the slimy torso grinded along the sun baked pavement.

  March 27th