Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (53 page)

Friday, January 1

Happy New Year.

Two years ago, Samuel Todd started a blog. He had no idea the world was about to die. Within a month, the dead were walking the earth. Seven months later, he was dead and I was pregnant.

In the past two years, the world has changed dramatically. Humanity holds out…mostly in small pockets of survivors who cling to each other in desperation and try valiantly to create something resembling something we all knew. Others have ta
ken advantage of the lack of authority figures, wreaking death and chaos wherever they go. These people prey on those deemed weaker. In many cases, that means women and children.

Make no mistake, nobody is innocent anymore. In this world, you kill to survive and you do it without hesitation…or you die. A few months into this whole drama, somebody told me that the estimated ratio between the living and the living dead had exceeded 13000:1. I’m sure that number is much bigger now.

The walking dead show no signs of just falling down. There was hope that, when food became scarce, they would just wither away. They haven’t. What has gone away is almost any source of fuel, transportation, power—electric, battery or otherwise—and ammunition. Like the Romans, Vikings, and Knights of the Round Table, we battle hand-to-hand. In that sense, we have devolved.

The walking dead travel in singles and small groups, but they’ve also coagulated into larger groups that sometimes nu
mber in the thousands called herds or mobs. If they get on the trail of something (usually one of us) they pursue with a mindless determination. That is a blessing and a curse. You can ditch them if you’re clever, but if they trap you somewhere…suicide is the quickest and easiest way out. They don’t tend to leave once they have you trapped. Zombies do not feel frustration.

A few more things about the undead; they must suffer ma
ssive brain trauma to be put down. Their bite is the normal way for them to pass on the infection. Although, like any other blood-borne illness, open wounds and contaminated blood are bad deals. The good news is that this contamination is not one hundred percent. There have been cases where individuals have survived an attack and not turned. Nobody knows how or why, and medical science has gone the way of central air conditioning. Even after all this time, their stench gives them away. They’re slower moving than the rising tide and have been known to make an unsettling sound that is likened to a baby cry. They don’t freeze or become immobile in the winter, at least not in any of the winters I’ve experienced. I couldn’t tell you about places like Alaska or Siberian.

A few months ago I set down my journal. The journal I took over when Sam died. Honestly, I didn’t expect to pick it back up. However, I’ve found a ther
apeutic outlet in my life to be blatantly missing once I stopped writing. I’ve found I needed the catharsis of putting pen to paper.

I will not bore you with the mundane events of the past months. Actually, I’ve spent most of it recovering from a wic
ked ass-kicking after going heads-up with a cult of lunatics that happened to include a young girl who, at one time, traveled with me. I’ve been living in a mansion-turned-fortress for the past few months. Had I been writing in my journal it would have read mostly something like this:  Woke up, stupid dog peed on the floor again, watched a group leave on a supply run again, couldn’t help…again.

Get the picture?

However, I’ve been getting better. I’ve rehabbed until I’m as close to a hundred percent as I can be. As I’ve gotten healthier, my desire to get out in the mix again has grown. I don’t do well being confined. It’s one of those things you never learn about yourself until an extreme event occurs. Like, would you return the bag of money that fell out of an armored truck?  Would you rush into that burning building to save a helpless stranger?  Or could you stay monogamous and happily married?

I’ve decided to strike out for Las Vegas as soon as I feel the weather will allow me.  Until it was deemed a waste, and the r
adio here was shut off—when wind and solar become your only source of power, you are forced to prioritize—we used to pick up an occasional message from somebody who claimed to be in Las Vegas. What’s more, they claim to have electric power. I need to see for myself.

I’m not sure if I’ll travel alone or not. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone in a while. Maybe they think I’ve learned my le
sson.  Maybe they think I will learn to be happy with this new life. I think I understand how Lewis and Clark, Christopher Columbus and Neil Armstrong felt. Sitting here…not knowing isn’t an option.

My name is Meredith Gainey, and my New Year’s resol
ution is to see Las Vegas for myself.

Saturday, January 2

This morning I took my dog for a walk…well…he isn’t quite a dog yet, but he’s too freakin’ big to be called a puppy anymore. His gigantic feet keep getting in the way of his legs, and I have never in my life seen a dog trip as often as this one.

However, Sam’s a good dog. He already knows to growl any time one of those walking meat bags gets close. Eric Gra
yfeather takes him out on patrol sometimes. I think he does it to piss me off. He knows how bad
I
want to be out there, so he takes Sam. Then, when everybody gets back, I get to hear all the neat things
my
dog did while I sit here on my ass.

That reminds me…the road (Highway 26) is now drivable from here to The Warehouse Complex. I am able to make trips to there or The Sunset Fortress. (Hey, they picked the names; not me.) It allows me to go see Baby Snoe whenever a patrol or convoy heads in that direction. I don’t go very often because I wouldn’t want the baby to become too attached to me. Also, I think it makes Janie and Lindsay, her adoptive mommies, very nervous.

The road clearing detail turned out to only be phase one. The two big communities—as well as the few dozen folks who live in the walls of the Mitchell mansion—are serious. They are using the plethora of abandoned vehicles to reinforce the barriers they create and continually expand. Both sides of the highway are walled off with them. It does keep the zombie traffic to a minimum while giving The Corridor (another of their catchy names), which is what they now call Highway 26 along this stretch, a very art deco sort of look. I bet some freaky artist back in the Before did a painting like this and idiots stood around some art studio reading all sorts of meaning into it.

And my contribution to all this hoopla?  I was “allowed” to sit in an armored bank truck and be ready to drive if the work detail needed to make a hasty retreat. Woo-freaking-hoo!

In other news…Jenifer is recovering, but the scarring is severe. She was really upset when she discovered that she could only grow hair back on one side of her head (and that is patchy at best). Eventually she decided to adopt the clean-shaven look. Also, she is completely blind in her left eye. It—the eyeball—is all shriveled like a raisin in the socket and looks hideous. She wears an eye patch most of the time, but sometimes she either forgets…or enjoys freaking people out when they see her. I think it is more the latter. She moved to The Sunset Fortress a few weeks ago.

I talked my plans for leaving this place over with Jeff and Ro
dney earlier today. I made certain that they understood that I have not dismissed that idea. They both have women now!  When did that happen? To their credit, neither tried to talk me out of it. I have set my date for departure at February 1
st
.

Oh…I got my medical clearance form Dr. Gene and Dr. Dennis last night. Of course, I immediately signed up for the next team leaving on a run. I will venture out on the 9
th
! It will serve two purposes: I will get to see how my dog operates ‘in the field’ during this excursion, and—more importantly—I will be finding out a few things about myself. I never realized what a toll it took on me just simply being out there. Even when you are in down time…there is no actual break. You must always be alert for trouble.

Every time I think about my upcoming Vegas run, I get butte
rflies in my stomach. I am about a dozen different types of nervous now. I chalk most of it up to being just a teensy bit stir crazy. This is the longest I’ve stayed put since all this began a couple years back. God! Has it been that long? I started to believe that the injuries I suffered in the fight with The Genesis Brotherhood might force me to become sedentary. However, I am a resilient girl. So there, World! Take that.

Sunday, January 3

Spent the day in the wooded hills behind the mansion. It’s taken me all damned evening to defrost. It was windy, and freezing rain fell most of the time I was out. Sam and I were soaked by the time we came in. I loved it! The only thing that would’ve made it better is if we’d killed a zombie or ten.

Monday, January 4

Jeff and Rodney came to see me this morning. They came with a rather interesting proposal. I guess Jeff has been doing some research. He found an old phone book and tracked down Erin…Sam’s ex-wife. They showed me on a map approximately where it would be.

Since I am leaving on a run anyways, and there are no r
estrictions as to where we can and can’t go, the decision has been made to hit Samuel Todd’s ex-wife’s old residence and the surrounding neighborhood. It would be quite a luxury if we could find any of his old things like photos and such. I could make a nice package for Baby Snoe.

Here is a weird note; they have had nine births at The Sunset Fortress (that survived). Three were boys, of those three, two were named Sam. Of the six girls, three—that’s half!—were named Meredith. Word came to me in a letter from Jenifer. (She also wished me luck with my trip, though I’m not sure if she meant my upcoming run or the impending Vegas journey. She didn’t specify.)  I guess news travels fast. Nothing like it was just before the Gates of Hell opened, but lots quicker than the Pony Express.

Did I mention that there are nightly runs made between the two main complexes and the mansion?  What a difference two years makes.

Wednesday, January 6

Doctor Dennis gave me a check-up today. I got the feeling that he doesn’t approve of my plans to leave. In fact, I got the distinct impression that he believed I would be sticking around …having babies!
Well, isn’t that a bit Genesis Brotherhoody.

It made me wonder. I know that there were people who li
stened to the broadcasts that those crazy people put out there on the airwaves. Did some of that madness stick to several of the listeners?  Are there people at either of the complexes or here at the mansion that bought into that crap?

I do have to give this to all the survivors…they are trying very hard to bring back the Old Ways. Does the phrase “Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it,” mean an
ything to these folks?

Thursday, January 7

The team is set.

Jeff, Rodney, Eric Grayfeather, Tina Capps—at twenty-five years old, her meth days have her looking fifty…and not a healthy Susan Sarandon fifty—and I will leave with the mi
dnight transport. We will be dropped off at the 170
th
Street exit on The Corridor. As much as I am sick to death of rest, I will try my best to get as much as possible in the next twenty-four hours. I seem to remember that you don’t get much out there in the wilderness of a dead world.

Saturday, January 9

First night out.

I am sitting on the very same couch that Sam sat on when he held his daughter Beth after she had been bitten by her own mother, Sam’s ex-wife Erin. Tina is acting like we’re in a damn church. Hmmm…I know I probably shouldn’t say ‘damn’ and ‘church’ in the same sentence, but sheesh!

It is normal to speak in hushed tones or whispers out in the wilderness because of the fact that noise brings trouble. Zombies are very Pavlovian insomuch that they are very responsive to sound. Yet, this gal Tina is walking around the house and won’t speak above a barely audible whisper. I don’t know why, but it is annoying the crap out of me. She’s read a copy of his journal (which became mine and still is by the way). I lived with the man, sorta. She is acting like we are in the Vatican…and I am sprawled on the Holy Couch flipping through a photo album.

It was really bad when we went upstairs to the bedroom. To Sam’s credit, he put them both—Erin and Beth—to rest just like he said…er…wrote. They both had pillowcases over their heads. I imagine that might’ve made it easier, but I can’t ima
gine what he must’ve felt using a baseball bat on his loved ones so early on in the zombie rising. Sure, as time has passed, those tasks have gotten easier. If it is a total stranger, it is practically perfunctory. Only, when it is somebody you know or care about…even now it can be rough in the best of circumstances.

This house has very little in the way of salvageable or scaveng
eable goods. This photo album and a couple others are about it. It seems odd looking at Sam’s face again. I’d all but forgotten what he looked like to be honest. What really hit me were the pictures of his daughter Elizabeth. She and Baby Snoe could be twins.