Zomblog: The Final Entry (9 page)

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 anything 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 whatever 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 nation. 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 happy. 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 afternoon. 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 anything. 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 zombies 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 everything 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 multiple bites on their arms.

It was here that I’d found what might’ve been my validation 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 baby’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.

The mouth was a mess. Eating a bullet will do that. However, if not done correctly, all that is accomplished is that the would-be suicide comes back as a zombie with just another nasty wound. The bullet exited, taking most of the right ear…and that’s it.

He…it…was reaching for me with filthy hands. One had a pistol dangling from it. I still shudder to think of what might’ve happened had I chosen to loot that body first.

Anyways, I reacted fairly normal to the sudden surprise. I screamed—not cool at all—and I threw myself backwards from the threat. It really doesn’t matter if it couldn’t have reached me from where it was strapped.

I guess I hit the emergency brake. At first, nothing happened. And had I not been throwing myself around like an idiot to get away from something that couldn’t actually hurt me, not to mention the fact that I was now certain the corpse in the driver’s seat was also a zombie, things probably turn out different.

The vehicle began to move. I finally got loose and tumbled to the floor. My head smacked a damn toolbox or something and made all the pretty lights flash in my brain. By the time I was aware that Eric was dragging me, we were moving at a pretty good clip.

He drag-pulled me to the side entrance and dove out of the moving vehicle with me in his arms. I was getting to my feet—about to yell at Eric for trying to kill us by jumping out of a moving RV—when I heard the crash. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw the RV jutting from that big metal fence.

For a moment, I wondered why it had come to a stop. After all, it had been moving fast as it careened down that steep slope. What happened next was like watching dominoes fall. Section by section, the fence began to topple. All those zombies that had been inside burst forth like pus from a boil being squeezed on your gross Aunt Maddy’s back.

I was ready to run when I realized that Eric was still on the ground. He was making funny noises from having the wind knocked out of him. We had plenty of space between us and the approaching mob, but it was taking Eric way too long to get to his feet. Finally, after an eternity, he was up. By now, Sam was bounding towards us, obviously anxious to get the blazes out of here.

I helped Eric get up, but he wasn’t moving that well at all. We rounded a corner and some of the roamers had come to investigate. And still Eric wasn’t moving well. He kept making these gasping attempts to get air in his lungs. It sounded like he was a giant frog.

Sam could’ve taken off, but I guess Eric trained him well because he stayed right beside us. Sure, he growled and woofed, but he never ran. Then we reached the intersection where I was faced with the choice of fight or flee. I let go of Eric—who melted to the ground like a candle tossed into a kiln—and rushed to take out the leading zombies.

One of them actually made me pause. They say that everybody in the world has a twin. I am certain that I found Calista Flockhart…or her twin. This skinny little waif couldn’t withstand a serious breeze. I have no idea what the zombie that bit her must’ve thought when it bit into that scrawny arm and chipped a tooth on the bone.

By the time I’d taken down all three, I’d migrated about a half of a block up the street. Fighting is not a stationary event. When I turned back, Eric was moving up the street in the opposite direction. Sam had stayed put, but was crouched down and backing in my general direction.

“Go!” Eric croaked. “We’ll split up here and try to meet up as soon as we can!’

Then I saw what had spurred his recovery and sent him weaving up the street. The horde was on us. I recall seeing the wall of debris and dirty water moving down that road. I remember Indonesia when that awful tsunami hit several years back. Well, if you can remember that image…just swap it with zombies. I noticed how some in the leading edge fell and vanished under the army of churning feet that would not be slowed.

I whistled for Sam and ran. I didn’t even bother to kill the zombies I passed as I sprinted by. And in no time…I was absolutely lost.

I finally decided on this place. A ransacked sporting goods store. It had a second floor which was good. But even better was this crawlspace. I’m sitting in this air duct by a vent that I’ve bent some of the slats on so I can look down to the street below. I can see them. This town is now crawling with all the zombies that had been put in that pen. It’s like the beginning all over again.

It’s strange…gunshots are a rarity. But I’ve heard some. Oh…which reminds me; in all that madness, I dropped the gun I’d found when I started all of this. This means that I not only endangered myself and Eric, but anybody that had been using this area...for nothing.

Who knows, maybe there is somebody in this town, Madras, sitting someplace with a journal or diary. They are probably cursing me right this very moment. Me. Meredith Gainey. The woman who unleashed an entire town population’s worth of zombies because she was careless.

And now…my canteen is almost empty. I’ve been sharing my water with Sam and must find more soon. If I don’t catch a break in the near future, I’ll lower Sam down. He could probably find water in no time. No sense in making him die of thirst just because I am. Also, and this is selfish, but his running off might clear the area for a minute.

Sunday, April 18

Weird.

I woke this moring to loud music being blared someplace nearby. I’m no classical music genius, but I know enough to be certain that it was Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
Da. Da-da. Da-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. Dee. Dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee-de-dee-dee. Bum. Bum. Bum-bu-bum-badda bum.