Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (18 page)

There are almost a hundred people here. About a third to half of what this place seems built to hold. There are solar cells, windmills up on the hill opposite of where my people are hiding, and four generators. One is modified to run on some sort of bio-fuel and Derrick plans on converting one more of the generators soon.

Everybody here works and shares in the maintenance, security, upkeep, and farming. In short this is exactly what we were seeking to start ourselves. I’ve only been here a couple of days, and only out of quarantine for one, but tomorrow I think I will talk to Grace. That is if everybody else has the same vibe as me. I will ask to go get the others.

I want to do it tomorrow because I’ve already signed up to make a supply run. It seems this place still has need of outside resources. (They say the hope is to be completely self-sufficient within the year.) We have a briefing tonight to lay out the plan. They have maps and all sorts of stuff.

I do think that it would be wiser to let Grace know about Spokane and also about those government spook types we encountered in Pasco.

I am actually feeling hope. For the first time in a long time, I truly believe that things might be okay. Sure, they will never be normal. But maybe, just maybe, we can stop running. Sleep the night through. Take a walk in the sun.

Maybe.

Saturday, April 26

The tiny town of Chilco was the target for today’s supply run. Of course it has been a busy twenty-four hours for me. Grace was not only thrilled to have the rest of our group join the population of Irony, she was impressed to see the foresight we used in our approach to this community. She was most excited to welcome Julia. Having an RN arrive was big news here. We still have no actual doctor. But there are five nurses here now which is, when you think about it, a very favorable ratio.

Anyway, there were ten of us on the supply run. We hiked out of the woods and came to a gravel logging road. After a couple of miles we came to an abandoned Ranger Station where an assortment of vehicles are kept: Jeeps, Hummers, pick-up trucks, and five deuce-and-a-halfs! All but one of the deuces have tarp covers. The real prize is a pair of fuel tankers. Derrick has it rigged so that, upon return, any vehicle that needs it can be gassed. Having been told about the RVs, he said a team could have them brought here tomorrow. Tim has already signed up.

So, we pair up and I team with Trent Blake. He was a bank manager in Coeur d’Alene. Never married, but had a seven-year-old son who he says lives—he won’t use past tense—in Seattle with his mother. Trent, at age twenty-nine, has pretty severe male pattern baldness with just a faint wreath of blonde hair. He seems a bit too optimistic which, from all I’ve seen, can only end badly if and when reality sets in.

We rolled into town and it was clear that they had hit this place before. Trent pointed out buildings with big, white spray painted “Xs” on them. Those were places already hit. So as we roll in, the zombies of course start coming from everywhere. The town population was posted at 2107 and it looked like more than half remained to greet our intrusion.

Each of the deuces had reinforced bars in front so the convoy just plowed through, sending bodies in all directions. I was driving ours and I glanced over once at Trent who had grown silent the moment we hit town. He had his hands covering his eyes. I can’t say I enjoy smashing into what had once been a five or six-year-old, but I can’t think of them that way. They are the husks of humanity and will try to take a bite out of me any chance they get.

So…the targets given Trent and I were a bakery and a pair of houses. Each location was marked with a circle on our map. We rumble up to the bakery first, and I intentionally ove
rshot it to take out a cluster of five zombies coming right at us. No sense in going hand-to-hand if I don’t need to. Trent and I jumped out and used our machetes to make sure the downed zombies stayed that way.

Trent drew a pair of .22 pistols and climbed on the top of the cab of our truck while I ducked through the already broken glass door and into the bakery. I got to the counter and found it clear on the other side. Before I climbed over I listened best as I could, but didn’t hear anything.  So over I went and to the door to the production area in back. Now, this place was about the size of two mini-marts together, so I knew the rear was gonna be pretty big. I pushed open the door and jumped back, nothing comes.  But I could smell it. Eventually what I was looking for tumbled from behind three big Hobart mixers. At first I couldn’t tell if it had been male or female. It was short, about four-feet-eleven and easily over two hundred pounds. One arm had been torn off at the shoulder. The back area had several skylights and plenty of windows mounted up high, all of which were mirac
ulously intact, and allowed for plenty of light. I brought my 9mm up, Grace was kind enough to provide a laser site, and once the red beam reached the center of its forehead, I fired. Nothing else emerged.

Then I went to work grabbing bags of flour, salt, sugar and everything related to baking that lined racks and shelves. Tonight, as I write this, I feel every fifty, twenty, and ten pound bag that I loaded onto a flat pushcart which I found next to one of the big, now defunct ovens. It took most of the morning. A few times I had to stop and help Trent take down a few zombies. Since we—the other trucks and mine—were scattered all over the tiny town, the zombies stayed spread out. That helped a lot.

After the bakery, we hit the private residences. This time Trent went in. I heard a couple of shots before he came out with clothes, linens, any food still useable, kitchenware…you name it. Basically, the house was stripped of anything and everything.

Eventually the radios we carried began calling for us to re-group. It was time to leave. I asked Trent if any survivors were ever found. He said it had been a few weeks since they’d brought any back.

Well…I’m exhausted. But I feel good. Maybe I’m being too optimistic…only time will tell I guess.

Sunday, April 27

Her name is Snoe Banks. Maybe she got teased when she was younger, but around here…she is called “Lady B.” At no taller than five feet (she keeps her hair cropped in a crew cut so she isn’t getting anything extra height-wise in that department) and build like a gymnast—except for being way top heavy—she is final death to any zombie unfortunate to cross her path.

I was in a five person team with her today on a scouting mission of some town called Opportunity, just over the Was
hington Border. It is one of the largest communities the folk at Irony have considered raiding. Our job was to gauge the density and scout for signs of survival.

I’d seen Snoe…Lady B…around, but she wears these oversized sweats all the time so I really had no idea. She showed up at the vehicle site wearing skin tight leather from neck to mid-calf.  She had a studded-collar, gloves with two-inch spikes mounted on a padded knuckle-band, boots with a steel heel that looks like a meat tenderizing mallet-head and angled steel-toes. She had a pair of laser-scoped 9mm pistols on each hip, sword hilts sticking up over each shoulder, and a knife that would make Crocodile Dundee jealous strapped to one thigh.

Nobody even blinked so I figured it was normal…for her. We loaded into an Army Hummer and made our destination just as the sun was coming up at our backs. We found a spot to conceal the vehicle and made our way to the edge of town on foot. We found some ridge lines to follow and with binoculars we were able to spot concentrations of zombies in a handful of locations indicating possible survivors. One was on the very edge of town in a Wal-Mart Superstore.

We’d only been watching for a couple minutes when a young girl no more than twelve walked to the edge of the roof and dumped a bucket over the side onto the moaning, growling pack below. We decided on the fly to see if we could find a way to rescue whoever was inside so Larry Bonn—I haven’t really talked to the guy much, seems like a real prick—fires the flare gun to see what sort of reaction we get.

The girl sees the flare and runs to an open hatch or skylight. We see her waving her arms and pointing. Pretty soon about a dozen people come up. Larry fires another flare. By now, I can hear the moans of approaching zombies. It seemed that quite a few had wandered up into these scrub hills.

That’s when I hear it. The heart-wrenching sound of a baby cry. I freeze, looking in what I am sure is the direction. Somehow, these folks hadn’t heard that sound from the zombies before.  Ryan Grimes, one of our few quality mechanics, goes bounding into the brush before I can stop him. Only, a second later he is falling backwards through the bushes with what used to be a teenage girl still wearing the top half of her cheerleading outfit clamped onto his left arm. This next thing would’ve been comical were it not for what was happening to Ryan. A burly zombie wearing a letterman’s jacket…and no pants bursts out next.

Before I can move, Lady B has these razor-sharp blades drawn in each hand. She whirls and the top third of Letterman- Zombie’s head goes flying into the tall grass at its feet. She takes two steps and punches Cheerleader-Zombie in the back of the head with her spiked gauntlet. She rolls the zombie off Ryan. His arm is a gory mess. Blood is bubbling up through his fingers where he is trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow.

I can still see Ryan sitting there. Legs splayed out in front of himself, holding his wounded arm. Lady B stepped around him. He never saw or heard a thing as she drew one of her pi
stols and shot him point blank in the back of the head.

We all just stood there as she wiped off her things like nothing happened. Finally, we decided to return to the Hummer. Zombies were coming from all over now. After taking some vi
deo of the area, we headed back to Irony.

There are folks looking at the tapes now and deciding on the best way to make a run on the town. Another team left shor
tly after we got back. They used a crossbow to get a message to those folks on the Wal-Mart that we would be back within the week, and if they wanted to come with us to light a fire on the roof or make some sort of sign. Otherwise, we would assume they are secure and wish to stay put and we would make no supply runs in their area as a sign of respecting their “territory.”

Monday, April 28

Had they survived, today would be my parent’s anniversary. It would have been their 50th. In the society we lived in just a short time ago…that was becoming a real rarity. Now, relationships are life saving. I do not believe we as a species are meant to survive alone. But, like everything else, we just took love and marriage for granted. Now, we don’t have time to really enjoy each other…we just huddle…waiting for the boogeyman.

Today I grabbed my guitar (and assorted weapons) and took a hike up into the woods. I only had to stop twice for zo
mbies. One was a gal—probably early twenties—with a terrible bite on her left cheek which had taken a nice meaty hunk out of what had probably been a real pretty face. It broke through to the clearing wearing only a push-up bra and the waistband of what had once been a pair of pantyhose. It stood there staring at me as I continued to play. At one point, it actually closed its eyes, as if remembering. Then, as they always do, its arms stretched out and it groaned as its jaws began to work in anticipation of the biting and tearing to come. A long thick, mucous glob rolled down its chin.

I set my guitar down and drew the long, slender, three-foot blade I carried on my back. One quick thrust through the right eye socket, and I was back playing guitar a moment later. I still think that just for a moment, something in that thing’s brain remembered music, remembered its humanity. But, instinct a
lways wins.

Tuesday, April 29

Town meeting today. It seems that after a good look at the video shot, a full-scale run on Opportunity, WA is going to happen. Because of the size of this run, we are going in in teams of four with five deuce-and-a-halfs, the fuel tanker—for possible refilling—and they want to use one of the RVs escorted by a pair of Hummers to try and extract those people. We roll off May 1st.

Wednesday, April 30

Meredith came to see me today. She said she had something she wanted me to see. Never one to refuse a pretty girl, I went.

I didn’t even recognize Joey when I first saw him. He was sitting in a circle with several other children with a not
ebook scribbling furiously as Tim was writing math problems on the huge dry-erase board. It was hard to believe that this was the same frightened child who would not step a foot outside back at the old complex.

We went back to my place and had lunch, which I must say still feels very surreal knowing what is going on out in the world. We talked about how she doesn’t really feel like she fits in. Other than Grace, who is a leader in political sense but does not leave the compound, and Snoe, who doesn’t talk to anybody and never leaves her place except to go out on missions, most of the women here are
—in Meredith’s words—girly. They are care takers and nurturing types that don’t leave the compound other than to go to the garden. Even Samantha had balked at Mission sign-ups.  Instead, she is a regular on kitchen detail, (everybody eats dinner together in the meeting hall as a community) and the vehicle maintenance team.