Journals of the Damned

by GJ Zukow

route, taking myself slightly further from my destination, trying to lose the ravenous undead following me. Over fences, through backyards and around neighborhood houses I traveled.

  I lucked out and came across an abandoned checkpoint, the soldiers who had manned it finally succumbed to the scarlet. Many of them lay twitching, a sure sign that they would eventually rise as mindless, cannibalistic horrors. I mashed their heads with the butt of my carbine and looted their cold cadavers. I found an M16, with a sling and a wickedly sharp bayonet attached to it. No one would strip my rifle from me again. I found some ammo for it and stuffed it into one of their backpacks. I didn't find as much ammo as I thought I should, I guess they had been doing a lot of shooting. There was certainly plenty of the dead sprawled around, evidently shot by the soldiers. There came a certain thrill when I found three hand grenades and I happily added them to the ammo. I was kind of disappointed, having barely filled a quarter of the backpack, when a group of zeds started getting close enough to spot me.

  The Wal-Mart parking lot looked like a small war had been fought there. It wasn't much better inside. I quickly got what I needed, cramming all of it in the deceptive size of the military issue pack. I did have to take the cold weather sleeping bag out of its package and compress it to make it fit, but I got what I came for.

  On the way out I came across an uninfected survivor, an older guy named Allan, who was rooting around in one of the aisles. He seems almost completely unaware of the situation. He's not the brightest person, in fact I think he's a bit stupid. Besides that though he's scared as hell and he doesn't seem to have a very aggressive personality. If it weren't for me he'd have been eaten for sure. He follows me around like a lost puppy. I think he's actually more afraid of me than the undead. That suits me just fine. At least with him I know I'll be the one in control.

  I decided to let him stay here with me at the bar. I actually could use some help and as long as he stays cool I won't kill him.

  Friday, October 12, 2012

  I no longer see the point of writing in this journal as often as before. I figure I'll write once a week or so, mainly to keep the boredom down, when nothing has been happening. If something does happen, breaking the endless tedium, I'll gladly write about it. Otherwise all I'll have to scribble down is a list of what I ate or how many times I went to the bathroom. Besides those small changes in my days, there is nothing different.

  The hours creep by ever so slowly. It's gotten to the point that I hate looking at my watch to see what time it is. Sometimes I glance at my watch thinking a couple of hours must have gone by, when in reality, only a mere half an hour has passed.

  There are multiple big screen, high definition television sets in the bar but they are all worthless. There is no programming, every station is dead. There is no radio here and I would love to have one, not for listening to music, that would be too risky. If I wanted to listen to some music, there is a D.J. booth here and a small computer loaded with MP3's. What I would want to do with a radio is to see if there are any remaining stations on the air.

  The only thing to do here is eat, sleep, watch the outside surroundings from the security cameras or play solitaire on the outdated computer in the D.J. booth.

  Conversation with Allan doesn't go far, he isn't really the talkative type. That's better than if he were the type that endlessly talked and talked though, especially if he were the kind of person that loved to yak about himself. I don't know how long I could stand being cooped up with one of those people that constantly blabber on, mainly about themselves, not being able to get a word in edgewise myself. Or worse, someone who was argumentative or always had to be right about everything. I know he was a cab driver and I know a bit about his history. While we don't have a lot in common, I don't get the sense that he is hiding anything from me about his past. Even though it's boring as heck here and there is a huge supply of booze, he's only had a couple of beers. Another good point in his favor. I can't stand drunks. He hasn't made any passes at me either. If he stays like this he won't bother me. If he starts acting stupid, there are no more cops or laws, I won't hesitate to kill him.

  I had thought that by now, the parasites' controlling the walking corpses would have surely collapsed. They haven't. In fact there actually seems to be more of them on the street outside the club.

  Outside the bar things have gotten real quiet. No more gunshots or screams. It's as if the survivors are either hunkered down, waiting for the dead to stop their unnatural wandering, secure in their shelters or have been over-run and devoured.

  There are a lot of zeds outside. By now, the last of the people who were infected with the Scarlet have finally died of it. They have died and been resurrected by the abominable, single celled, parasite.

  I'll write more when I actually have something to write about. Hopefully, the next time I write it will be to tell of how the zombies are dropping like flies.

  Thursday, October 18, 2012

  The events of the past six days had fallen into a monotonous routine. However much I dislike the boredom, I find I hate having something to write about even more.

  Allan has turned out to be halfway decent. He respects my privacy, allowing me the space I need. He spends a lot of his time cooking and screwing around in the kitchen. He's actually turned out to be a decent cook. When he's not experimenting with different recipes, he can be found playing solitaire on the old computer in the DJ booth.

  I claimed the VIP room as my own private area, Allan didn't seem to have any problem with this. The couches and chairs in the VIP room are the most comfortable in the club. We dragged one of the over-stuffed couches into the main room, by the DJ booth for Allan to sleep on. He understood my being uncomfortable sleeping in the same room with someone who was basically a stranger.

  I've spent most of my time in the manager's office, scanning the outside monitors and figuring out how to properly break down and clean the M16. There is a computer in the office, a nice new model, with a cable modem but the internet provider is down. I've set up our packs and duffle bag with stuff I gathered from the club, ready for me (us, I guess) to grab and go at a moment's notice.

  It was sometime around four in the afternoon, while I was bored and idly watching the black and white monitors, when the sound of a car horn could be heard in the distance. It wasn't a continuous sound, instead it was a repeated, more on than off noise that became louder and louder. If someone was driving through the streets, blaring their horn, I thought it had because someone was trying to distract the undead. The loud, almost constant noise was sure to draw the attention of every rotting zombie in earshot. In the silence of the apocalypse, the noise carried much further and was sure to draw a large number of the monstrosities. There were a dozen or so of the zeds viewable on the cameras and every one of them immediately turned towards the clamor and started towards the sound as fast as their stuttering gait could propel them.

  Allan, alarmed, came rushing into the office, desperate to know what was happening outside.

  We watched, with ever increasing anxiety, as a Nissan sedan of some sort came barreling into view. The silver car's front end was clearly dented and beat up, obviously having hit multiple zeds that had crossed its path. I say obviously because the windshield was shattered and there, hanging half in and half out, was a horrid member of the undead. The animated, decaying, corpse's legs were both broken, flopping wildly as the driver ran into and over ever more of the things as he struggled to maintain control. The driver was fighting with the foul thing, it had grasped the steering wheel and was trying to pull itself through the shattered windshield to get at the driver. The car started swerving and careening around the road even more wildly than before and it suddenly drove straight into the strip club's parking lot.

  "No, no, no." Allan muttered, barely audible, as if his words could stop what was happening.

  There was a large awning over the main entryway to the club. It served as a valet point and an area where the customers could get out, stayin
g out of any rain or inclement weather. It was held up by two large posts at the far end, each dressed to appear as if they were Romanesque columns.

  The battered Nissan drove directly into one of those columns, spinning the car around. The column buckled and collapsed, pulling down a large portion of the awning. The zed that had been trying to claw its way through the windshield of the car flew out and rolled harshly through the parking lot, knocking over other of its vile kin as if they were bowling pins.

  The driver, stunned and bleeding from a head wound, got out of the car and ran straight towards the front doors. A huge number of the walking dead had been alerted and were hungrily making their way to the very place we were hiding.

  I was so wrapped up in watching the monitors that I hadn't noticed Allan leaving the room. I was furious when on the monitor I saw one of the front double doors open and the driver rushed into my sanctuary. Allan really pissed me off with that bone headed move, he didn't even ask me for my opinion before rushing off and letting this unknown inside. Not to sound cruel but the driver had drawn a horde of the undead to us like flies on shit. Thinking back now, and Allan reminded me of this, even if the guy had gotten