Days With The Undead (Book 1) (5 page)

I worry for the meltdown. Is it going to happen at the worst possible time as tends to be the norm these days? We can only hope that the meltdown never comes…

There is one thing in particular that I find incredibly odd about this whole thing: why Brooks VanReit? Why Toronto Canada? What has made us so special that we get to be the epicenter of the coming Apocalypse?

It just seems so weird - too weird, doesn’t it? There is no high level bio-containment lab in the city or even in the province. One was supposed to have been built in the 1990’s within Toronto’s city limits, but community opposition prompted the lab to be relocated to Manitoba. There are scientists that work with viruses and infectious bacterium but their labs are not equipped and therefore not authorized to handle specimens that pose any significant risk to humans. Puzzling, isn’t it? In the end, I suppose that Toronto had just as much luck as any other place to be the birth of undeath.

I’ve even done a thorough background search on VanReit. I have access to a number of databases through my position at the CFS and I couldn’t locate him on any watch list or cited as having authored any scientific papers. From the looks of it, he was just an ordinary guy that has held the same job at a downtown marketing firm for the past sixteen years. He literally was just a mid-level manager with no apparent links to anything covert or illegal.

It just doesn’t make any sense. What
had
started all of this? At the moment, it doesn’t look like we are ever going to know. God, I’m beginning to hate questions - especially those without answers.

It’s getting late and I’m exhausted. Adrenaline has kept us going for the past few days but soon its effects will wear off. Sleep is essential to keep our bodies working for us. And hopefully now I’ve passed on enough of my roiling thoughts to you, enough to allow my brain to shut off for a few hours. Keep yourselves safe in the meantime and pray that some answers surface soon. We need them if we are going to survive this.

Day 7:

We moved fairly quickly through the countryside today. I don’t like being out in the open for too long or too often because our movements tend to attract the unwanted attention of any the Undead lurking around. Moving through the woods does have its drawbacks as well, but the dense underbrush acts as a warning system of sorts. The Undead don’t have the foresight to move covertly by sticking to the trails. Their progress can be easily tracked and therefore avoided.

There was one moment where we thought that perhaps we would be stopped entirely. As we were going from one wooded area to the next, we had to cross a back road. The forest was dense on both sides of the road and we assumed that we would be able to walk the kilometer between them without any incident. What we didn’t bank on was the officer that had chosen to set his speed trap on this desolate road in the middle of nowhere.

We stepped out of the woods just to the left of where he had tucked his cruiser behind a thick copse of trees. You have to imagine the sight that he saw; four people stepping out the woods decked out to the nines with weapons and other gear.

Within mere moments, the lights and sirens started, scaring the shit out of us. It was a sound that we hadn’t heard in such a long time. In fact, it was a sound that we felt that we should have been hearing more of. It was an odd thing; we knew that most people are ineffectual against the Undead but we wanted that response from law enforcement, if only to feel that something was being done.

He sped the short distance to where we were stopped, not sure if we should just make a run for it or reassure him by waiting. He got out of the cruiser and immediately drew his service revolver. Considering that none of us had our firearms at the ready, it seemed like overkill in the moment. His questions came fast and somewhat garbled; we must have surprised him as much as he did us.

Not quite sure what to tell him, the truth came out instead. The look of disbelief that took hold of his countenance began to make us somewhat fearful. The last thing that we wanted was to encounter someone from law enforcement intent on making an issue out of our flight. His hand holding the gun started to shake. It was obvious that he had heard something about what was happening in and around Toronto. It was clear, however, that he hadn’t made up his mind on what to believe yet.

At that moment, his radio squawked to life. There was a disturbance in the next town over and they needed someone to respond. All of the other officers that had been dispatched could no longer be raised on their radios. He took one long look at us and got into his car to leave.

The last words he spoke as he pointed down the road to the south still haunt me: Don’t go in that direction. When he pulled the car onto the road he headed north. The message from the officer was clear; they’re close.

Our aim was to get to a place where crossing into the United States would be easy. After losing Barbara, we needed to re-evaluate so we planned on paying someone, a local, to take us across. If all else failed, we were just going to ‘borrow’ a boat and navigate the waters ourselves.

Max and I had taken watercraft and boating lessons for this contingency but we couldn’t be sure of the strength of the waters we might encounter. We hadn’t come all of this way just to fail now. Being separated from the infection by water, I feel like I can breathe, at least for the moment anyways. This, though, is the terror we experienced in the last few moments of our lives in Canada.

We chose to cross into the United States by traversing the Saint Clair River. While most of both sides of the shore are industrialized, there are sections where the urbanization hasn’t been improved as of yet. We picked one of those spots, hoping to remain unnoticed.

The shore was muddy, the dock rudimentary by comparison to those further upstream, and in the twilight you couldn’t even see the opposite bank. There was no one to pay to take us across so we found a boat just large enough to safely hold us along with our gear. We choose something just big enough to handle and give us the peace of mind that we would not capsize. If our aim was true, once across we would be north of Detroit and hopefully have cut ourselves off from the Undead by major bodies of water.

There are, of course, the areas where the border is only just a figurative line. Places where no one guards the entrance into the United States. The places where no one monitors the exit out of Canada.

In the past, the relationship between Canada and the United States has been one of respect and helpfulness to a certain degree. The world’s longest unprotected border does lie between us after all. Sure, there are border crossings with border guards on both sides but at times that’s just a formality.

That was of course before 9/11 - since then things have changed, but that is to be expected. None of that was going to stop us though; border guards or not, we were getting into the United States.

In all honesty we could be putting ourselves into more danger. With the way that air travel works, anyone can get anywhere within a matter of hours. Think of the ramifications that could have if even one infected person managed to get on a plane.

I remember back to 2001 when a passenger on an international flight caused a huge controversy because they started to exhibit symptoms similar to Ebola shortly after arriving. It turned out she didn’t have it, but the communities she passed through were terrified. The implications of an infected person transitioning from alive to undead aboard a domestic or international flight is truly terrifying. All of those people would have no means for escape. Sure, it’s possible that the Air Marshal could effectively take care of one or two but their mandate is to use lethal force only if no other alternative is available. The confusion in that moment would be high. Would they make the right choice between restraint and death? Firing a gun aboard a plane during flight could be disastrous. What if they missed? What if things escalated and the pilot landed the plane? That could potentially unleash the infection into areas that hadn’t been exposed to it yet. Horrifying to think about, but I digress from the topic at hand…

As soon as Max started the craft’s engine, a noise came out of the woods to our backs. As I hurried to release the moorings, I ordered Ben and Bob to get the rest of our gear and themselves into the boat as soon as possible. I remember thinking, feeling almost intuitively that we didn’t have time to waste.

Somehow I knew that noise was being made by
them
.

The noise we were hearing is hard to explain. It was like the sound of a stampede of cattle, only softer, more ominous. Ominous only because we know that only a significant number of the Undead would be able to make that much noise. The sound waves pushed at us, allowing us to feel their approach. If this is what it felt like to be on the front line during wars fought on the battlefields of old, I now understand what it must have felt like to stare down your enemy as it marched forward. You knew they were coming.

Then the smell hit us. I work with the dead so I’m almost immune to the smell of decomposition in the sense that I can readily recognize it and then ignore it. There was no ignoring this. We had never smelled them like this before.

The cloying scent of decomposition was overpowering. It was mixed with the smells of blood and dirt and what was almost sweat-like in odor but I think that’s impossible. How can something dead sweat? The heat of the past few days certainly hadn’t done anything to help with the stench and in the soft breeze of the evening, it robbed the breath from you.

I could hear my team behind me trying not to gag but failing as I unfastened the last of the lines securing the boat to the dock. At that moment they burst through the last of the trees along the edge of the shore. There were now at least a hundred or so of the Undead only a few arm lengths away.

The shock of that moment was unparalleled in anything that I can recently remember. There were so many of them. I gave the boat a hard shove away from the dock and jumped aboard. Max opened the throttle as the Undead poured from the woods like honey from a broken bottle, their arms reaching for us. They were so close that you could feel the wind from their hands as they just missed you. The boat surged forward, throwing us off balance. How we managed to remain in the boat during the panic of that moment is beyond me.

In their haste and desire to follow us, some fell into the water but their bloated bodies just bobbed on the surface slowly before sinking. I hate to imagine that they are walking to the opposite shore underneath the water as I type this - that they will meet us here.

Without the benefit of their senses (if they have any), I hope they are lost forever, that the currents take them far away to the bottom of Lake St. Clair or further along to Lake Erie. Actually, I don’t wish that. I don’t want them contaminating the water supply. There are water treatment plants along the shores and that could be even more disastrous if this situation is somehow brought under control. And we certainly don’t want to think of them as fish bait. I don’t know if the organism, if it is in fact an organism, has the capability to jump species and I would rather not find out.

Once we were on open water, we felt safer. Our journey to the opposite shore was rather uneventful after the earlier tense, terrifying moments. We did lose some of our supplies but they were non-essential so we’re not too bad off. We can restock. The important thing is that we are all still alive.

I hope everyone reading this out there is safe. Please pray for us on our journey. I don’t want to get too hopeful in thinking that we may have gotten in front of the infection but we will be moving further south.

Godspeed to anyone else out there in a similar struggle.

Day 8:

Moving through the United States is a little more difficult. Four individuals moving quickly on foot, armed to the hilt tends to attract some attention.

In Canada, no one bothered with us. Must have been part of the Canadian way of life; natural curiosity is rampant but along with that is a healthy respect for privacy. Then, of course, you factor in the Undead component and it becomes a completely different ball game. No one bothers you, and you don’t bother anyone else.

Our guess was that people in the United States felt a kind of safety in the fact that they live in the glorious United States of America, Land of the Free. I hate to break it to you but the Undead aren’t going to stop at the border. Your military is not going be able to keep all of you safe especially since they haven’t even appeared to mobilize yet.

There’s nothing on the internet, no inkling of any increased presence despite the tip that there has been a possible outbreak in upstate New York. The major news website has little information coming out of the area and their crew on the scene has gone missing. The situation does not bode well at the moment and if you’re reading this and you are anywhere near that town, anywhere in upstate New York or even in New York State at all, I would suggest leaving immediately.

It’s only going to spread farther and farther. That’s obvious by what’s already happened. The Undead managed to get all the way to the St. Clair River and that’s not an easy feat. It took us just over six days to get there ourselves and we were moving with a purpose.

There is a sense of relief to be out of Canada, mind you. There is so much more space and options for travel in the United States. Where we were in Canada, it would have been hard to get around the Great Lakes if we found that we couldn’t get into the United States. We had unknowingly funneled ourselves into a do or die situation. We had no option other than to get out.

I know that leaving is hard. But you have to make the choice to survive or die trying. The more of us left to fight the growing tide, the better. I know that many of you don’t know how to fight or what you’re fighting exactly but it has come to the point that none of us can sit idly by and just let them take it all from us.

My group has given me permission to tell you their stories, to tell you why and how they got here. I’m not going to give it to you all at once though. Each one of us has a story that deserves to be told, and the time to tell it will present itself accordingly.