by GJ Zukow
We had to go back a couple of miles until we found an access point, even then we had to cautiously drive through and around the muddier spots of the unpaved medium, not wanting to get stuck in the muck.
Once we were back on pavement we quickly made our way back to the southbound roadblock. To our amazement as we approached we saw a beat up station wagon with a flat slowly trying to squeeze its way past the checkpoint towards us. The driver saw us as soon as we saw him and he stepped on the gas, scraping the side of his car on the confining cement divider to get through before we could get there. The station wagon was going through the gap at an awkward angle and the front passenger tires' rim was sending sparks on the pavement, making any fine control impossible.
When we stopped twenty yards in front of the opening in the roadblock the driver was stuck. He was frantically trying to go forward, then backwards, causing smoke to start billowing from his rear tires. Allan and I got out, fully armed and ready to shoot the driver. I didn't want to kill the driver, I wanted the idiot to get his car out of there. He had to get stuck in the worst place possible. Allan stayed back and covered me, keeping an aim on the driver as I approached.
It was tense and I was nervous as hell, I had no idea how the driver was going to react. I know he was scared, there were two fully automatic weapons pointed at him, he turned out to be more scared of us than we were of him. Meekly he came out of the disabled vehicle after I told him to get out. When the driver complied I wondered to myself how this man was still able to force himself to go on. His right arm was bandaged, his left arm was bandaged and in a sling. The bandages were dirty and stained with blood and puss. There were deep, dark circles around his eyes and his face was gaunt, like he hadn't eaten well for weeks. We checked him for signs of the Scarlet, he was clean of the parasitic disease. He was sick though, the wounds on his arms were deeply infected.
The driver of the dilapidated vehicle's name was Don. He was a middle aged man with balding grey hair who was on the verge of collapse. His demeanor wasn't threatening, in fact he pleaded and begged us for help. Even if he had wanted to harm us he couldn't. His only weapon was a forty-five with two rounds left and I had confiscated it.
Allan put the haggard man in the back seat of the Suburban and gave him some water and food as I tried to move the stuck station wagon. As soon as I got into the car I could smell the guy's infection. I never smelled gangrene before but I had a hunch that's what I was smelling. Try as I might, the vehicle was wedged tight and I couldn't get it to budge an inch. I even tried to push the station wagon out of the way with the Suburban but I ended up doing nothing more than crumpling the fender and busting one of the headlights.
I am a firm believer in providence and fate. I sat in the Suburban listening to what Don had to say while I was deciding what to do. It was an interesting coincidence that just as I had tried to go north, someone who had been there, someone who was trying to escape from there, ended up blocking my path. The tow truck would have helped greatly with the stuck vehicle but the tow truck had been battered by the firehouse's bay door and ended up being buried under half the cracked wall that finally came down when the roof was blown off. Too many coincidences for me to not believe that the Gods wanted me to take a different path.
Don used to be married. When he and his wife split up and ended the marriage, his wife took custody of their only child. His wife had moved to Florida to be closer to her side of the family while he stayed in New York. It wasn't a mean break up, they had simply fallen out of love with each other and drifted apart.
When the Scarlet swept through mankind he talked to them, trying to help as much as he could. He sent money and paid for a company to ensure that the house his little girl lived in was secure. The last time he had spoken to his ex, he could tell by her words she was losing her mind. He told Patty, his eight year old daughter, to stay away from her and hide someplace. His daughter was a good girl and did as she was told. The last time he had spoken to his daughter she told him her mother had gotten real sick and then she woke up a couple of days later and was trying to hurt her. He made sure she locked herself in the safe room (one of the expensive renovations he had paid for) until mommy went away. For awhile he hadn't heard from her and he feared the worst. When his cell phone rang again and the caller ID showed his ex-wife's number he immediately started to slowly make his way to Florida. The fact that he couldn't hear anything on the other end didn't sway him, the connection could be weak or any number of things could have happened where he couldn't hear his daughter's voice. His phone had rung six times since then, sometimes it was a single ring, sometimes it was an empty connection that stayed on for an hour. His daughter was trying to contact him. Only the living use cell phones.
I kept my mouth shut when I heard that, the undead never "go away". Once they sensed living flesh they would try to get at their prey until they ground their limbs to dust, battering them ceaselessly against whatever blocked them.
After the dead rose up, he found himself trapped in a small apartment. There were millions of the hungering undead all over NYC. He was on the verge of starving to death when miraculously, the harshest winter he had ever known spared him. He had the benefit of a thermometer he kept outside on the balcony. The temperature outside was on average, a crisp, negative twenty degrees below zero Fahrenheit, without taking into account the wind chill factor. The undead froze stiff at around ten degrees. That was over a month ago, he had been trying to get to his daughter ever since then. He followed I-95 (or at least tried to) as much as he could, often he had to leave the highway and take side streets around the bigger cities. All the roads and highways around D.C. were completely cordoned off. The road ways into every major city was an impassable parking lot. To make things worse, there was foot upon foot of snow on the ground. Snow drifts tower above his height, ten to fifteen feet high in places. There are no more snow plows to clear the roads. In most places he could only make guesses as to where the road used to be. When the winter storm hit, it engulfed the East Coast with such cold and snow that the sheer weight of the clinging ice snapped all the electrical power lines. There is no electricity, no heat, no water anyplace he went. Even if he could find a place with a wood stove or a working fireplace, just getting the wood would be dangerous. There is so much snow that moving around in it safely is an almost impossible task. The freezing cold only provided one benefit. It froze most of the zeds in their tracks. That is the only way he had escaped.
The snow didn't start to slack off until he got into Georgia. Then there was only a foot or two on the ground. That's where he almost got eaten alive. That's where he had awoken to two of the undead things biting huge chunks of his flesh off him. His left arm had been savaged, with the bone showing in multiple places. His right arm had been wounded too but the wounds weren't nearly as bad as on the left arm.
He had taken refuge in the first town he had came to that had electricity still. He was exhausted and so tired that after giving the place the once over and finding it empty he scrounged what food he could and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. It had been too long since he had experienced the warmth and a full stomach, he passed out more than fell asleep as soon as he laid down.
He made three big mistakes. The first mistake he made was not realizing that the abominable undead would follow him for miles, continuing on in the direction they had last seen their next meal. His second mistake was in believing it was still cold enough for the zeds to have been frozen into immobility. His third mistake was thinking a simple lock on the door would be enough to keep the things at bay. Those were unforgiveable mistakes to make when the dead walked the earth. Don was ignorant of some of the most basic facts of this new reality, much as Allan was when I found him. I got a lot of information from Don, enough information to realize that going up north now would be a real bad idea. Better to wait out the winter down here and then go up north in preparation for the next winter if I have to. Maybe I won't have to, maybe the zeds will collapse by then.
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br /> We agreed to help Don get to his daughter. As I drove, Allan did what he could for Don's wounds. The smell of Don's wounds were bad, really bad. The left arm needs to be amputated. It's a useless, mangled, shredded piece of rotting flesh that only brings him pain. The thing is, I fear that even if we amputate, it may be too late for him. He's feverish and the infection has spread past his destroyed arm. We gave him plenty of antibiotics and what we could for the pain. He might have pulled through but I think only a hospital would have been able to save his life.
We drove him to his daughter's house, a couple of miles north east of Ocala. On the way we not only had to deal with the broken down cars and a few stray zeds but we had to swerve and dodge around fallen palm trees and pieces of buildings from the storm.
When we finally arrived at the residence, a small, well hidden house set back from the road, Don bolted out of the car and started yelling for his daughter. I had to remind him to shut up, his voice would draw the undead to us. From the outside the house seemed to have weathered the storm well. The windows had been properly covered and the doors had new dead bolts installed.
There was no response from inside. It drove Don into a bit of a frenzy as he beat on the plywood covered windows trying to get his daughter's attention. He tried calling the house phone and as I looked around to see how I could gain entry I heard the phone ringing from inside the house. I knew what Don would find inside but I didn't say anything.
Don kept telling us that his daughter must be sleeping or she's still locked herself in the safe room and can't get to the phone. He was sure his ex-wife's risen corpse must still be inside keeping his daughter from the phone. He refused to believe that she wouldn't be found alive.
Don started asking for an axe to chop down the door when Allan pointed out that one of the rocks under the porch was obviously fake. It held a spare key.
I couldn't stop Don from frantically grapping the false rock and opening the door. He rushed right into the house even though I was trying to hold him back. He didn't have his weapon with him, I still had it in my waistband. I tried to tell him we need to go in cautiously but he paid me no heed. I shrugged at Allan, who shrugged back at me and we both followed Don into the house.
Allan and I walked in cautiously, making sure the rooms were clear but Don ran straight towards the safe room. In a sparse moment we heard Don screaming at his wife's animated corpse. He was calling her foul names as he beat her head into the wall. In Don's state I was surprised that he could, with one arm, overpower the walking cadaver and be beating its head into the wall. The ghoul stood no chance against the desperate need a father had for his child.
Don leaned on the locked door to the safe room and pleaded with Patty to open the door for him, telling her that daddy was here now and she was safe. He stayed like that even after Allan and I had made sure the house was clear and had dragged the remains of the zombie outside. When we returned Don was weeping, calling for Patty and then remembered there was a keypad he could open the door with.
It took Don a couple of minutes of searching to find it. He fumbled the code twice before he pressed the right keys. The door clicked and unlocked and Don practically ran into the room.
The outcome was predictable. Mommy's hungering corpse stood outside the door trying to get inside and eat her daughter. The daughter feared so much what was waiting for her on the other side of the door she stayed there until she either died of thirst or starved to death. I don't know which one killed her, my suspicions were confirmed as soon as the door opened and the smell of her small rotting body assailed my nose.
As for the calls on the cell phone, there was no living person dialing the phone. Patty's corpse had started to rot and decay many weeks ago. The phone hung from its power cord, having fallen off the nightstand. It blew in the warm air whenever the furnace kicked on. It twisted and swung around in the small breeze, occasionally banging into the nightstand. Randomly it hit redial and the last number called happened to belong to Don.
Don cried and we buried both his daughter and his ex-wife in the backyard. That night as we slept Don finally gave up his struggle and he died too. I think Don just gave up on trying to live. The infection he had was bad, but I don't believe it was bad enough to kill him at that point.
The house is suitable for our purposes.
Allan buried Don next to the fresh graves of the rest of his family while I brought our things in and set up our new place.
This is the complete opposite of what I had planned on doing. Hopefully this place will be the last place we have to hide in.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
I realize it's been more than a month since my last entry. To be truthful there hasn't been anything to write about for some time now, until today. I suppose I could have described the new safe house and the surrounding area before today but I didn't see the point. Even today's event may turn out to be nothing, simply a result of an over active and overly paranoid mind. Whatever the case may be, I'm bored and have nothing better to do, so I guess I'll do a little writing.
Most of the houses in this area are spread out. The amount of land each house sits on varies anywhere from an less than an acre to ten or more acres. There's a relation between the age of the houses and the size of the land. The older the house, the more land it has. The bigger, and older houses, were built prior to World War Two, having the old style wiring and walls that are covered in slats and plaster instead of modern drywall. All of these older houses have the remains of barns, chicken coops, stables and in one case, an aged double outhouse. The newer the building the less land it has. The more recently built houses have none of the secondary buildings except for a large shed or unattached garage. There is one small subdivision in the area, consisting of around thirty or so houses, all of which sit on small plots (following the standard American suburban set-up). There used to be a large house, practically a mansion, with a surrounding wall and private gate that is now nothing more than ruins.
The two story house we're holed up in now appears to have been built in the sixties or seventies, having been renovated with some basic security upgrades. There's a single camera at the front door and all the doors and windows are hooked up to a security system. It literally took me hours of searching to find the codes for the alarm system. The doors have had additional locks placed on them and the safe room appears to have been built on a separate foundation slab.
The nearby town's small business section, along what most people would consider the main street, consists of no more than a dozen businesses and a single grocery store. A fire had swept through and destroyed the police station and township offices.
I haven't been able to scout or loot any of the small towns downtown buildings due to a large number of the undead. There are hundreds of them all over place. There is an old population sign with the towns motto "Welcome to the small town with the big heart." Just over a thousand people used to live here, now the former residents of the town wander around the streets in search of the living. Most of the walking dead seem to be centered around the small town's post office. I can't get close enough to tell if they're trying to get inside it or if they're just grouped close together around it, I can't even get a good view with my army issue binoculars. There may be survivors holed up in one of the downtown buildings but I can't be sure.
Most of the surrounding houses are empty, with the rare exception of the odd zombie that couldn't find a way outside to join its detestable brethren. This, to me, is another example of the undead grouping up into something like a herd. There must be some sort of basic communication going on between them. I would love to capture a few of them and do some research but that would be folly.
There isn't a lot of food left in any of the houses or buildings that I can get to. Allan and I have grabbed every scrap and morsel we could find but it won't last us more than a couple of months. I get the feeling that it's all been picked through and raided before we got here.
Lately I've been getting the
feeling we're being watched. I don't like that one bit.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Since all the windows have been boarded up there is no way to look outside. I briefly thought about taking the panels off of the second story windows but decided against it. The benefits of the covered windows are just too many now that that dead hungrily wander the earth in search of the living.
I found an access hatch leading to the attic in the master bedroom's closet. The space is small and confined, requiring one to crawl between boxes of old clothes and what I would call junk. The former occupants who stored the materials up here obviously didn't consider them junk, they considered them memories. I tossed most of it in a spare bedroom for more space. On either end of the low peaked roof there are ventilation covers with fans hooked up to the central air. I removed the fans and controls so I could open the ventilation slats (they look like metal venetian blinds) and look out. I have set up a watch post up there. I can only see east or west through them but it's better than nothing. I have a hunting rifle with a decent scope up there along with a set of night goggles I appropriated from the dead in my scavenging of Orlando.