Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (55 page)

A small herd found our little retreat today. It happened early this morning several hours before sunrise. (Not that there was much of one with all the heavy, gray clouds that have been dumping snow on us all damn day.)

Sam’s growls are what woke me even before Randy stuck his head inside my room and told me to suit up. In fact, by the time he did, I was pulling on my boots and inspecting my gloves for any rips.

I climbed up on the platform built along the inside of the wall. It allows you to see over the wall and lets you hold a steady position while you jab an approaching zombie in the head. Easy-peazy-one-two-threezy! Only…to do that for over three hours really makes you think your arms might fall off. I don’t understand how the zombies aren’t simply frozen!

Right now, with the threat dealt with, my shoulders feel like they have a billion knots in them. My arms feel like overcooked no
odles, and I have cramps because my period started at some point during the battle. Yay!

Wednesday, January 20

It actually feels like the weather is trying to conspire against me. Not a day has been above the low teens for three days now. There is also an additional two feet of snow on the ground. For those of you who didn’t grow up in the Portland area…that is unheard of.

Eric came in from the drag-and-burn detail a little while ago to express his doubts as to our projected date of departure. Am I the only person who, once she sets her sights on something, can’t let it go? I am feeling that supercharged mix of adrenaline and a
nticipation as I wait for my target date.

Sure, February was kinda arbitrary; and these days, what is the difference between the first and the twenty-first? I’ll tell you what the difference is: I set a date and that is when I told myself that I was leaving. That may be one of the problems with writing this stuff down…I always have my own words staring back at me.

Friday, January 22

Spent the day outside the fence with Sam.

Everybody is kinda pissed at me right now. Okay!  So I kinda forgot to tell anybody I was leaving. Last time I checked, I was an adult.

***

              Now that I have cooled off mentally and warmed up physically, I made my apologies. I get it. We tell people we are leaving so that they don’t worry. It isn’t about being beholden to others…it is simply courtesy.

That said…it was so much FUN!  Sam and I slipped out to the neighborhood next to the school we got trapped in back when I was pregnant. I shuddered just a little when I walked past that gymnasium where I almost died.

I should back up a bit. Last night, Eric came in with a crossbow for me. It is rigged with a spool of nylon line that is a
Wham
video Day-Glo green. It is similar to fishing line. All I have to do is attach it to the bolt I am about to fire. Once I shoot, I can actually pull the bolt back. That is handy in so many ways. If I am low on ammo and there are zombies…I can reuse my ammo. It is like a video game power.

“MEREDITH HAS UNLIMITED AMMO.” You use your own video game voice there. I always hear the voice from
Mortal Kombat.

So, once I got down to that neighborhood, I actually had to search for a target. The first test went well. Sam growled and I just went in the direction he was pointing. Initially, I didn’t see anything, and then this ponytailed, middle-aged yuppie guy came struggling through the bushes. I tagged it on the third shot (my aim is a little rusty). I kept reeling in my shot, reloading, and fi
ring. Once I scored the hit, I had to actually use my hands to tug the bolt free.

Here’s what I don’t get. Pulling the bolt back, the head seemed to come apart like wet
papier-mâché
. It wasn’t like the bolt had to line up and come back through the hole it made going in. I had to give a few hefty yanks, but eventually I had my bolt back. I kept thinking that the line would snap from my pulling so hard. After a dozen or so firm yanks, the skull sorta split, and my bolt came free. So…why don’t these things just rot and fall over?  I’m no Bill Nye, hell, the only reason I passed my high school science class is because the teacher made a pass at me. I was failing at the time. We made a deal. I got a “C” and he got to stay out of prison and off the six o’ clock news. (He got busted two years later in the back of his car with a member of the girl’s JV basketball team, so all I did is postpone the inevitable.)

Huh…got off track there for a second. My question was: How come those things aren’t all just puddles of rot by now?  It’s not like they have a plentiful food source any longer. It just doesn’t make sense. But I guess neither does the whole ‘dead getting up and eating the living’ thing. Am I right?

After my first field test of the weapon and retrieval line, I started wading out deeper into the surrounding areas. Eventually, I found what I was looking for. Nine of those things were shuffling through a small park. I got their attention with a little whistle. The moan they cut loose with might be the same as it always has been, but the muffled quality of a snow-covered world made it extra creepy.

I climbed on top of one of those big wooden play structures. Once I found a spot, I made Sam sit and stay inside this reeking plastic bubble with lens-shaped oval windows. Then I stood on the platform attached to the rusted monkey bars. I was almost concerned that I was too close. Their fingertips—or what was left of them in most cases—brushed the bottom lip of the pla
tform. I fired down into their heads from above. The ground actually helped here. There was a bit of a slope, and these things fell away. That kept the others from using the downed bodies to get a better swipe at me.

Getting the bolt free was work, but doable. The nasty part was cleaning them off between each use. It is time consu
ming, but in a world where consumables have stopped being mass-produced, you need to adapt. Next time out I will try it from the roof of a building.

Saturday, January 23

Started gathering things for the trip. Eric has ski attachments for the harness carts. It will make moving through the snow a lot easier. We have some awesome sub-zero outdoor equipment. As a test, tonight we’re making a snow shelter and sleeping outside. I’m actually giddy. Eric seemed less enthused, but he never shows any emotion, and certainly not excitement. He always looks so solemn. At least I won’t have to worry about him talking my ear off when we are out in the wilderness.

Monday, January 25

The sleeping bags work great!  I also learned how to make a really ghetto version of an igloo. Sam seemed to enjoy climbing down into the foot of my sleeping bag. I was actually worried about that; the whole part of how to keep my dog safe and warm that is. Between the awesome sleeping bag and my dog, I was quite toasty.

Thursday, January 28

Just returned from The Sunset Fortress. They threw some sort of crazy party. There was quite a bit of homemade hooch being sampled and traded.

Yes. I was a naughty girl. No. I don’t remember his name. Yes. I used protection. Jeez! I’m giving myself the third degree. All I will say is that he was quite
enthusiastic.
Only had to redirect him once. What is it about when things get a teensy bit nasty…men always go for the ass?

Friday, January 29

The weather conspiracy seems to be fading. It has rained all day. Not enough to wash away all the snow, but enough to diminish it so that we don’t have to trudge through knee-deep drifts. That will wear you out quick.

In case you are wondering, Eric and I don’t ski. And I don’t have the patience to learn. It would probably come in handy, but we voted and it was unanimous. Besides, I would feel like my m
obility was seriously hampered if I was on skis. When zombies pop up, you need to be flexible. A novice skier would be the equivalent of a free zombie buffet.

Sure, I’ve seen those movies where the action hero has a shootout with the bad guys while he is on skis, careening down a pine-freckled mountain. I’ve seen lots of things in movies. Ho
wever, I’ve watched enough episodes of
Myth Busters
to know that a lot of it is a bunch of hooey.

I loaded my harness cart today. I have an assortment of weapons, plenty of food (not looking forward to eating MREs again), fi
ltration canteens, and an impressive amount of gear to help me stave of freezing to death.

Everybody here at the Mitchell place has made a point to stop in and say goodbye, give well-wishes, all that stuff. I would’ve liked to have seen Jenifer one last time before leaving. She is at The Warehouse for some reason. I did look for her at Sunset b
efore the drinking kicked into high gear and had been a shade disappointed. Maybe she’s no good at saying goodbye either. I will miss her.

I’m not trying to sound fatalistic, but I do not believe that I will never see this place again. Sure…that’s where the ominous m
usic plays…the foreshadowing of my eventual fate. Blah, blah, blah. Actually, it is that I don’t plan on coming back. This is the start of the next phase of my adventure. There is a whole big world out there that I haven’t seen. Getting Vegas out of the way sorta kicks off my checklist.

Sunday, January 31

This will be my last night in a bed for a while. I hope I can sleep, I’m so excited!  This is really going to happen. Tomorrow morning I will put on my gear, check everything out, and Eric will join me and Sam at the gate.

I don’t have any idea what I will find
out there
. I only know that I will be
out there.
I understand the idea of safety…but with an entire world
out there
, how can anybody simply hide behind the walls and live in one tiny space?

Monday, February 1

Made it all the way to the outskirts of Portland on the first day! Of course, most of the day was spent crossing the West Hills. We can see Mount Hood against a perfect frame of blue sky. It is crystal clear…and FREEZING!

We stopped midday in the neighborhood that I hid in with Lynn when I first passed through this way and our group got separated. Lynn’s is just one of the many faces that haunt my nightmares. I can’t really recall the face of any zombie I’ve killed—and there have been hundreds, if not thousands—but I can clearly see Lynn’s. To put that in clearer perspective, I’ve once again all but forgotten what Sam’s—Baby Snoe’s dad, not my dog’s—face looks like. But when I close my eyes, Lynn is there. Killing her haunts me worse than anything else I’ve seen or done.

***

Got a little morose for a moment there. That’s one of the problems with solitude and aloneness (I don’t know if that’s really a word, but I like it). Left to your thoughts, it is easy for some of the worst to demand center stage in your mental theater.

Travelling with Eric Grayfeather is exactly how I imagined: qu
iet. Sometimes I actually forget that I am with another person. He rarely walks within twenty yards of me. Then, out of the blue, he will grab my arm and point something out to me. Half of the time I don’t know what I am supposed to be looking at because he doesn’t say anything. Like, one time, he did that grab-the-arm-and-point thing. So I am trying my hardest to see something. Then, this deer bounded out of some bushes. I don’t know how in the hell he saw it
before
it came out of those bushes…but it was the biggest deer I’ve seen in my life. A few zombies popped up along the way, but nothing that even registered as interesting. Killing them has a tendency to be about as normal as swatting mosquitoes. You learn to ignore the ones that are far off and only administer death to those who may be buzzing in for a drink. Then, if they bite you, it is all you can think about. See? Zombies are just like mosquitoes.

Moving back through the city and out of the relatively well-patrolled area I’ve called home for the past several months, I heard something I haven’t heard in a long time. In fact it was conspicuous in its absence…gunfire. Yep, folks are still out here in pockets of who-knows-how-many. Some still have good a
mmo to use in their fight to live just one more day.

Funny. If humanity as a whole were a dog or horse or som
ething, we’d say put it out of its misery. There is something to be said about either our ability to survive (like the cockroach), or our refusal to accept death as an alternative.

Tuesday, February 2

THAT was more like it!

We crossed the bridge today. I came close to actually conside
ring my chances with the ice cold water of the Willamette River (which has chunks of ice the size of cars floating in it).

We got up early because Eric said he wanted to cross the bridge
before
sunrise. So, after I was done cursing at him, we packed up and got moving. Sam didn’t seem to mind and was bounding along like we were going to the park. He sniffed and peed on everything.

As we moved up the on-ramp, my happy puppy suddenly switched into Growly Dog. All the hair on his back was standing up, and he stepped back to be right at my side. I already knew from my previous crossing of the bridge that some of those things were trapped inside their vehicles. I thought that was what Sam had started growling at. (Apparently someplace where it is okay to end a sentence with a preposition.)

Silly Meredith.

We were actually on the bridge just as the eastern horizon was turning a lovely shade of pink. The appearance of a few bobbing shadows had me drawing my scimitars. (Did I mention that I’d taken time practicing using them in both hands simult
aneously?  I’m still a bit awkward, but steadily improving.)  Eric drew this really sweet looking saber he found at a museum. Just like that, we were ready.

He moved to the left side of the bridge and I took the right. Fighting close has its uses at times, but outside like this, it is o
ften better to have some space between yourself and your companions. Sam stayed glued to my side—good doggy!—and I readied myself for the fight. I counted an even dozen coming just for little old me. Eric looked like he would be facing double that.

The first one closed to within range, a black kid in what looked to have been his early teens. He was wearing a Portland baske
tball jersey with the number twenty-two. My blade caught him in the temple. Ah yes…the stinging buzz…how I’ve missed it so. I snapped my wrist back to keep the blade from catching in the skull as the zombie dropped at my feet.

Ducking beneath the outstretched arms of the next one, I popped up and simultan
eously brought my blade under the chin of one zombie and straight up into the brain while kicking back at the one I’d ducked, sending it over the rail and to the river below.

It took me a few seconds to realize that Sam was facing back the way we’d come. He was hunched over and snarling som
ething fierce. I glanced, and had to do a double-take. They were rail-to-rail, and coming for us. So much for them being scattered to the Four Winds after two years. I gave a warning whistle to Eric and he responded with an acknowledging hoot; Eric can’t whistle.

I transformed into a dervish. That was a mistake. I have not been out in a while and forgot that, in situations like the one we were facing, you need to remain methodical and even. Not only did I have to spend energy on hitting a zombie for a second or even third time because I wasn’t aiming, but I wore down from the constancy of the fight.

The ground became so slick that I started having difficulty with my footing. Then there was the creeper that I totally missed. It grabbed my left wrist—the little girl couldn’t have been more than six years old when she’d been pulled apart—and yanked me off balance as I was trying to recover from one of the times when I’d slipped. I drove one of my blades into the top of her skull and rolled away as two more zombies sorta belly flopped right where I’d just been sprawled.

Getting to my knees, I felt something grab my left hand. My scimitar clattered to the pavement and I screamed as I felt teeth grinding down on my bones. Thank God for the mesh li
ning in the gloves. I made eye contact with Eric, and even from this far across the bridge, I could see the concern clearly etched in his face. I shook my head and went back to fighting. I started by punching the zombie gnashing on my hand square in the nose. Next, I shoved my other blade into his face. It fell…taking my glove with it. I absolutely did not have the time to retrieve it.

I was now surrounded.

That was when I considered the rail. By now, Sam was going berserk. He was growling, nipping, and tugging at the hems of these things that had me surrounded. I quickly realized that if I jumped, my chance of survival was zero. It wasn’t just how high up we were, but that combined with the ice chunks made for a bad situation. I sought the thinnest point in their little line, and burst through the shrinking circle of undead. I still get the heebie-jeebies thinking about all those dead hands brushing my skin.

Ewww!

When I popped out the other side, I discovered Sam bounding around in a tizzy. He was giving this lady bus driver a real problem. I planted my blade in the back of her skull on the way past. Eric had fared much better. A pile of corpses were strewn about him.

We jogged the rest of the way across the bridge and d
ecided to zig through a ruined neighborhood where we found an empty two-story house that looked exactly like every other house we passed. I have no explanation or logic behind our choice, it was simply luck. We totally scored! 

We didn’t have to touch any of our supplies and I am stuffed. It will almost suck to leave this place tomorrow. I just polished off two cans of mandarin oranges, a jar of sundried tomatoes in o
live oil, and a tin of smoked oysters. Right now I am snacking on some magnificently stale Grandma’s oatmeal cookies. (Don’t knock wax packaging.)

It only gets better. I found a Sony Discman portable CD player. Right now I am curled up in a wicker Papasan chair with ove
rstuffed cushions. Sam is in my lap under the blankies, and I am listening to Mozart. The disc says this is
Requiem
, which I realize is somewhat ironic giving the state of things. Eric said it was creepy, but I think it is beautiful. I found a package of a dozen batteries that work, but I will use this sparingly. It is an absolute treasure. There was a cd wallet with a few dozen discs in it. I plan on finding a way to bring this with me.

We really did take a lot of things for granted in the Old World. So much was readily available that it didn’t require thought…just want. And now, music like this might be gone fo
rever.
This
is what I meant about living. The simple act of finding this and hearing the music brought real tears to my eyes.

Eric is in the next room snoring. Every time I change the discs or there is a break between tracks on the cd, I hear him. Is there a more abrasive sound than snoring in this world?  I think not. I’ll even take wailing zombies over that sound.

It is almost dark outside. From my seat, I can look out the window to the street below. The dead stroll by like there is a twenty-four hour block party happening. Sometimes, one comes up to this house in particular. It paws at the door or scratches at the boards covering the windows, and then it wanders off. I think I’ll stop writing for a bit and just enjoy this little luxury.

Friday, February 5

Someplace close there is a freakin’ war goin’ on!  We’ve taken refuge in—of all things—a trailer park beside the highway. From here we can see an apartment complex across the way. Five of the three-story units are ablaze. Occasionally I can see shadowy forms dashing one way or the other. Also, we keep se
eing bright flashes arc through the sky. (I think it is Molotov cocktails.)

Obviously this place has been picked clean. The trailer we are hiding in is nothing more than a shell. Even the wiring is gone. Sam doesn’t like it at all.

The best thing about what is going on out there right now is that the zombies are drawn to all the activity on the other side of the highway. I haven’t heard any sounds to indicate that either side has firearms. It is actually sort of creepy. Sometimes there is screaming. I can remember a time when I might’ve felt the need to go over there and get involved…pick a side. Not anymore.

Saturday, February 6

Highway 26 is also called Mount Hood Highway. We are out of the more densely populated areas and now camped in a farmhouse. The sign we passed, and eventually decided to turn down, said this is ‘SE Stone Rd.’ It intersected the highway and seemed as good of a place as any to turn off and look for our nightly lodgings.

There has been a herd through here recently. You can tell it is recent because the swathe of destruction isn’t all mucky and full of puddles from this morning’s rain shower. (Actually, that was Eric’s observation, but once I looked and gave it some thought, it was kind of obvious.)  The rain came early, but it has been sunny all day. Well, at least until about five minutes ago. Now all the trenches made by an undead army on the move are filling with water.

The field out back has about a twenty-yard-wide ‘path’ trampled through it. I wonder what started them this way. The reason I am curious is that, whatever used to grow in that field, it’s now a head-high jungle. I’ve seen a few herds, and they always take the path of least resistance. The main body usually sticks to the road and the overspill will flow into the adjacent yards or fields. This group turned off the road and went into the field…like it was in pursuit of something or somebody.

Of course we checked it out up close. Not even a straggler in sight. There were the usual bits and pieces. Sam wouldn’t step a foot in the area. Eric had a moment of unusual mirthfu
lness. We were poking around and he came up to me with an arm!  After I gave an embarrassing shriek—and he stopped laughing—he held out the arm to me and insisted that I look. I did, but was obviously missing something.

“The watch,” he said, holding the arm up for closer inspe
ction. I looked and shrugged. “It’s a Montblanc,” Eric snickered as he pointed to the grime-smeared timepiece.

I still didn’t get what the dickens he was trying to say.

“This watch was worth more than I made in a year…and I had a decent job.”  He chuckled, and then tossed the arm into the tall growth.

I watched it sail, proud that I refused to make a comment about how time flies. As we resumed our search for a place to sleep, I began to wonder. What was wrong with our society that a man—it was definitely a man’s arm—could wear a watch that cost more than what a “normal” person made in a year?  I mean, I get the whole “haves” and “have nots” thing. It is a fact of life…even today. I have seen groups come in with people on the verge of starvation, teeth falling out, skin laced with lesions. Meanwhile, those living along the corridor are eating three meals a day and holding parties complete with alcoholic beve
rages.