Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (60 page)

Thursday, April 1

We are scheduled to leave Government Camp tomorrow. I say “scheduled” because the weather has turned once more and decided to get in its last jabs before spring. This past week we have seen just how overmatched we are by Mother Nature. I guess—according to the signs and the burning in my lungs— that we are at over four thousand feet. And if you think that making this hike on foot allows you to acclimate…you are so very, very wrong.

As the route got just a bit steeper and we climbed steadily u
pwards, the world seemed to change. It was as if there were an imaginary line where the snow begins and gets deep fast. Here at Government Camp there is a two hundred and thirty-six inch base! Yes! Of snow!

So, we earned a pair of snowshoes during our stay. At the bo
ttom of the mountain there is an outpost that is run by settlers where we can turn them in for trade before continuing on our journey. Yeah, when I said “earned,” I meant we earned the means to rent them.

The cart works well on runners by the way. Good thing, too. This was one hell of a field test. So, tomorrow, when the caravan scheduled to leave here to go down the south side of the mou
ntain departs, we will be going with it. I don’t like the idea of travelling with a group, but that is how they do things here and I don’t get a vote.

We’ve been told that the trip takes five days. When we reach the bottom and arrive at Government Base, we will be r
equired to go through an exam. The military is long gone, but it seems that the civilians decided to maintain the protocol. I guess it helps them keep folks from bringing the infection up or down the hill. Plus, the Native Americans won’t allow anybody to travel through their territory without appropriate medical approval.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that the Natives have exe
rcised total sovereignty over the Warm Springs Reservation land?  Well they have. I guess there is some sort of government liaison or detachment of officials that set up at the base of where Highway 26 begins to climb up Mount Hood. They tried to fall back into Warm Springs when a zombie horde came, but the tribal council of Kah-Nee-Tah denied them access unless they agreed to certain terms. The OIC wouldn’t even listen to what the emissary had to say. That OIC and his detachment went the way of Custer.

The local civilians were far more reasonable. Now it seems that the Warm Springs Indian Reservation is now called Confedera
ted Kah-Nee-Tah. They have a much stricter immigration policy than the United States ever imagined; even from the farthest right wing. I think it is something about not trusting the White Devil.

Once more I will be grateful that Eric is with me. Othe
rwise, I would be forced to go all the way around their land. It seems that, while they do business with those on the border, they absolutely will not allow non-Natives to pass through their land unescorted.

How do I know all this?  Eric has spoken with the liaison here at Government Camp. It seems that there is an embassy sy
stem in place. Eric is very excited by it all. I guess he hasn’t seen many of his “people” since this nightmare began. It never occurred to me what that might feel like. I mean, Eric is slightly darker complexioned. He looks like he is rocking a decent tan…even in the winter. But…how do I say this? He looks …normal. That isn’t the right word. But he isn’t Black or Hispanic. I guess I really never saw him as anything but…Eric.

Sure, he has a cool last name, but I don’t go around saying, “Hey, Grayfeather!  What’s up?”  He is simply Eric. Perhaps, in a couple of days, I’ll get a taste of how he’s felt this whole time. I am going into his people’s land. I’ll be the only “white man” around.

Friday, April 2

I feel like ‘Polly Pioneer’ as I travel with this caravan. The word is that we probably won’t see any zombies for at least the first two days. The eighteen mile journey to Government Base will take four days provided that there are no problems.

Saturday, April 3

White!  Everything is white. I don’t care if I never see a
nother snowflake again. I used to love watching snow drift down from the sky. I am SO over that.

Sunday, April 4

Rain. Blessed and glorious rain!

Monday, April 5

A few of the escorts had to take out the odd lone shambler from time to time, but it’s official, we’ve relegated zombies to the Old World equivalent of the rat. We hate them. We kill them. We no longer fear them.

Tuesday, April 6

We are in Government Base. Well…‘in’ is a relative term. We are in the medieval lockdown ward. Each of us has been examined for bites (or signs of healed bites as there is apparently great medical interest in those showing immunity).

Now we must endure four days of isolation. It sucks, but them’s the rules. Sam was even taken to a secure kennel. I signed a form saying that if he proved clean, I would permit him to be exposed to a female in heat should the situation arise. Hey, just because I’m living the life of a nun when it comes to sex doesn’t mean Sammy has to.

Saturday, April 10

I picked up my journal several times, but never had an
ything to say. I thought I might wax poetic or go all philosophical…get into the whole retrospective thing.

Nope.

I slept. Ate. Slept some more.

Today I am free to wander the base. Eric is busy making wha
tever diplomatic arrangements need to be made so that I can travel the Confederation Territory. Can you believe that there is a sign warning: “All non-Native persons trespassing on Confederated Territory will be considered an enemy of the Peoples of the Kah-Nee-Tah tribe and its affiliates and will be shot on sight.”

Whatever.

Oh, and it seems that several other Northwestern tribes are in on this. I know zilch about Native American history—half the time I slip up and call them Indians…nobody says anything, but I sense the disdain—much less the politics. I guess several of these tribes have had problems with the local tribe, blah, blah, blah. Tribes are doing this all over the country.

I heard rumor—actually Eric did and relayed it to me—that the entire state of Oklahoma is being claimed. Tribes from all over are sending delegates to arrange for something like a walled n
ation. They are talking about fencing off the entire state!  I don’t know if it’s true, but he sure seemed to believe it. I did ask him what would/did happen to any survivors of the non-Native variety that might be there. He very calmly said they were probably escorted to the border…or killed if they resisted.

Like I said, I don’t know much about history, but I know enough to recall our government really screwed them at every turn. I guess they are enjoying some get back now. I don’t think I blame them.

Wednesday, April 14

Today we arrived in Warm Springs. The local tribe—Eric calls them “Springers”—is very hospitable. Granted, I am under approved escort at all times. Still, I expected there to be cold looks, or even a challenge here and there. Everybody I’ve met has been amazingly polite.

Eric says that there are tribes from all over the Pacific Northwest congregated here. Also, some of the delegates, or whatever they call themselves, from the Oklahoma region are present. So it
is
true; the Native American population is withdrawing to Oklahoma and sealing it off. I don’t see how they can hope to accomplish such a thing, but it ain’t my problem. As for if it is possible…who would have believed in actual zombies overwhelming society except for the fringe types who read that crap?

The best part is that we’re out of the cold and snow. It is really nice here and there is so much food. Eric seems to be really ha
ppy. If I didn’t need his escort out of this place, I’d consider slipping away and leaving him here amongst his people.

Thursday, April 15

We’re on the move again.

A security detail took us by horseback all the way to what they consider to be the border. We are about five miles north of the city of Madras, Oregon.

Eric really stocked us up with food. We shouldn’t need to worry for quite a while in that regard. I could tell he was torn about leaving. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him…ever. We are camped just inside the reservation. There are regular patrols along the fence on horseback. I have to admit that I’m super impressed that they have erected a fence all the way around their territory. It must’ve been quite an undertaking.

Tomorrow…The Wilderness.

Friday, April 16

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Sam and I are in an overhead crawlspace of some Mom & Pop sporting goods store. I don’t know exactly where Eric is. One day away from his people and I practically get him killed.

If I ever see him again, I’m gonna have some serious butt kissing to do. That, and about a gazillion “I’m sorry, Eric, please don’t hate me!” mantras to start on.

Saturday, April 17

It was too dark to write anymore yesterday, so I had to quit. In case you’re wondering…I’m still hiding in the same spot. I did crawl down once to look for water. I had to scramble my ass right back. Did I mention that there are THOUSANDS of those things milling about? Oh…and that it is totally my fault.

Here is where yours truly screwed the pooch. (Eric says that a lot and I’ve sorta adopted the phrase.)

We were moving down into Madras late Friday afte
rnoon. Most of the city is toasted. It looks like there were some nasty battles here. Many of the buildings were torched, bombed, or bullet-ridden. All the way around this one field was a fence constructed of that corrugated metal. We couldn’t see over the wall, but we didn’t have to in order to know what was inside.

From what we could tell, there were a few roamers scattered about. It was quickly obvious that we wouldn’t be doing much scavenging around here. While it was possible that we might find a few odds and ends, this town was wrecked.

Eric suggested that we push through and make camp on the south side of town. We had at least a two day journey to Prineville—the next real town on our map. I’d been a bit cooped up the past couple of weeks and wanted to have a look. I
knew
there wasn’t likely to be anything here worth the trouble. Then…I saw the armored RV with the heavy machinegun mounted on top.

I had flashbacks of the trip from Irony to Portland with my All-Girl Army. It’d been one hell of a
Road Warrior
-esque adventure. Sure, it ended badly, but there were some moments. I wanted to check the vehicle out. I could tell that Eric wasn’t excited about the idea, but he apparently decided to let the crazy white woman have her fun.

I recall walking up the hill to the abandoned RV. The closer we got, the more obvious that it was unlikely that we’d find an
ything. For some reason, my brain refused to process that bit of information. All the signs were right in front of my face: hundreds of bullet holes, the rusty machinegun, the long-since-dried gore on the inside obscuring the ability to look in the windows that remained intact.

I opened the door and the smell that rolled out was almost a physical presence. Sam actually skittered away and refused to come any closer than about thirty feet. I pulled out my mask and climbed in. There were a dozen dead soldiers (at least a dozen) strewn about the spacious interior. I could tell they’d fallen back to the rear of the RV where an equal number of zo
mbies lay in a pile signaling the site of the last stand.

I was curiously drawn to the scene; trying for some reason to decipher how it all went down. I was also checking the bodies for weapons. It was becoming clear that they had used up ever
ything in this final skirmish. The guns were empty, slides open and locked. Many had been converted to bludgeons—the grips caked with gunk and strands of hair.

From all the useless electronic gear, it was clear that this place was some sort of rolling command post. I moved forward to check the driver’s area. The angle that we were parked, it made things a little more difficult than you might think. The driver’s and front passenger’s seat were occupied. Both looked like they’d chosen to eat a bullet rather than change. Each had mult
iple bites on their arms.

It was here that I’d found what might’ve been my valid
ation for this little diversion. While they were firmly gripped in dead hands, both pistols looked like all they needed was a little spit and polish…and some oiling. On the driver’s belt was a pouch holding a pair of magazines, and at his feet, a box of bullets for the Colt .45s.

I had to tilt the steering wheel up to get at the pouch, and was prying/tearing the pistol from stiff fingers when I heard it: a b
aby’s cry. It was from close by. I looked up, and that’s when I noticed the head of the person in the passenger’s seat turned my way.