Zomblog: Snoe's Journey (5 page)

Well, I guess none of it will matter right now. I don’t plan on hiding in the background while others do the fighting. And I can’t even say for certain that General Carson will be the final threat. Or that he is all that the NAA has to throw at us.

What I can say is that we have to fight for what is ours and do our best to restore things in some way that will allow as many people as possible to try and live in some semblance of a community.

Saturday, July 23
rd

We were back at it before the sun rose. That is a good thing, because some time before midday, the storms came and unleashed rain in sheets that made it almost impossible to see the nose of the horse you were riding.

Poor Mato had his head down the whole day. I don’t know how he walked all day like that. He didn’t seem to need to look up one single time. Even more impressive was when that bolt of
lightning hit that tree about fifty or so yards away and blew it to smithereens. Mato did not even hardly flinch. I think his ear might have twitched a bit.

I don’t care if it was supposedly warm weather, after being soaked through like that, the slightest breeze chilled me all the way to my core. However, despite the rain coming down so hard and making such a racket, along with the rolling thunder that never seemed to stop, I could not hear over my own teeth clicking together. Rest assured, my jaw is sore now from that non-stop chattering, and I even bit my tongue a half dozen times or so.

To say that I am miserable right now would be putting it lightly. I really did take for granted the luxury of growing up inside the comparatively safe confines of the walls that protected Corridor 26.

It has made me reflect on what it must have been like for my dad…and for Meredith. And I know that some of you reading this will probably try to see something in the fact that I call her by name, yet I still call Sam my dad. I don’t dispute who gave birth to me, nor do I have any problems with what Meredith did in giving me to Mama Janie and Mama Lindsay. I do believe that, if he would have lived, Sam would have let Meredith go and stayed with me.

I know who raised me, and my mothers will always be special in a way that nobody else can ever replace. There is more to being a mother or father than simply introducing a child into the world.

Sunday, July 24
th

We found signs that perhaps there is a large raiding party in the area. This morning, as we started our ride, we noticed a column of smoke rising in the clear morning sky.

We decided that it was pretty close to the direction that we were travelling anyway, so it really only amounted to a slight veering a bit more due west. Of course, we did not know for sure that it was a settlement that was burning until we came to the ridge overlooking the place

Since there is no proof, I can’t be sure, but something in my gut says that this is the work of the NAA. Angel disagrees. She says that General Carson and his people headed towards the Las Vegas Occupied Zone. When I asked how she knew that for certain (I have heard the same rumors since back in Irony, but I was curious), she told me that the Confederated Tribes have eyes watching any and all large settlements and forces.

Almost on cue, three men came out of the brush. They looked just like what few pictures I have seen when it comes to the old time images of Native Americans. They wore simple animal skin loincloth-type things and had a quiver of arrows over one shoulder. Their long black hair was in braids and their faces were painted in blacks and grays.

Angel made us all stop and she went over to them to speak. After a few minutes, she brought them all over to our little group. She didn’t bother with introductions—which I think is a bit rude—and relayed at least some of what they told her.

Just after dark last night, a large band of men on horseback rode into the small settlement. Somebody inside let them in and they rounded up everybody, making them all stand in the rain while they went house to house and took whatever supplies they grabbed. They had a wagon with one of those flame shooting hoses, so the people really had no choice but to let these men take what they wanted.

The problems occurred when some of the men started taking advantage of some of the women of the settlement. That was when the people began to resist. There was a fight at some point that turned into a bit of a riot. That was when the invaders opened up with the flame shooting hose and began torching all the homes.

Besides having the people outnumbered almost two-to-one, they also had far superior weapons. It was a wholesale slaughter. The invaders headed west and have several hours on us, but I guess some of the Natives are tracking them. And no, it was not General Carson and his men, but they were flying the NAA banner.

That was not exactly the news I wanted to hear. This means that there is more than one army out there to worry about. However, if it can be considered good news, the consensus is that this group is actually heading towards where General Carson is supposedly camped out.

We rode into the village and put down a few walkers; probably people who were immune but had been bitten at some point. Then we hauled all the bodies to one of the buildings that still burned. We tossed the bodies into the flames and then two of the men chanted something. I have never heard anything so simultaneously beautiful but sad in my life.

We rode in silence the rest of the day.

Tuesday, July 26
th

We skirted the ruins of what was a pretty large city. I didn’t ask, and nobody offered to tell me. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

That brings me to this point; I have asked a few times as we rode along what the name of a particular river might be or what town lies in the distance. The Natives either don’t know, or they don’t care. They say things like, “What would you call it if you were to give it a name?”

What the heck kind of question is that? How am I supposed to know what to call it? As for the towns and occasional cities we see in the distance, I guess I am going to have to wait until I get home. I will find a map and try to guess the general route that we took and find out for myself.

I seem to recall a similar situation between Meredith and Erik Greyfeather. Maybe it is a Native American thing.

Wednesday, July 27
th

Today was more what I felt to be in my comfort zone. Yep…zombies.

We were just breaking camp when a single walker just sort of staggered into our midst. The interesting thing about this one was that it was obviously fresh. Oh…and he had a patch on his tattered jacket: New American Army.

I was actually the one to first notice him and was really not all that excited. After all, one zombie is hardly anything worth getting worked up over these days.

Just as I pulled my blade free, I heard something. That damn baby cry. It was in some brush, so I waited for it to come stumbling out…only, it didn’t. However, coming through the trees just to my left were a few dozen more. It was a mix of fresh and some of the more…
seasoned
versions.

Now everybody was involved. Also, the horses started making a fuss. I saw two of the men rush out to where the horses were hobbled, but I was suddenly finding myself up to my armpits in zombies.

A damned mini-herd had literally stumbled upon our location. It probably could not have been more than a hundred or so, but when you are not really expecting them, it can be dangerous.

We managed to put them all down without anybody getting a scratch and then set to breaking camp. Then I heard it again, from the same location. The baby cry.

I looked around and nobody seemed to be noticing it. Sure, it was faint, but I did not see how anybody could miss that sound. I headed over in the direction I was sure that it came from and started poking around in the brush with my long blade. If it was a creeper, I didn’t need to have it grab my ankle.

Just as I was about to poke this dense copse of brush, I heard a very distinct, “Shhh!” come from the area. I was certain that zombies did not shush each other.

I froze and waited; then I heard a whimper.

I moved some of the stalks of vegetation aside and that is how I discovered Megan and her little sister, Ginny.

Megan is six years old and has wild red hair that is curly in ways I could never do justice with words. The poor girl looks like she got hit by lightning…twice. Her eyes are a deep hazel and she has about nine billion freckles on her face, shoulders, and arms. The missing front teeth only add to her cute factor.

As for Ginny, I would guess her to be about eighteen months old. A zombie got a good nip on her left arm, but she does not seem any worse off than if she were dealing with any other slightly infected injury in need of cleaning and medicine.

What happened next almost derailed everything.

I called Angel over. She took a look, nodded, and went back to getting her horse ready. Everybody else seemed just as oblivi
ous to the little girl I had under my arm who was clutching her fussy and injured baby sister.

“Do you wish to save your people or those two?” Angel finally spun on me when I began to make more than just a little fuss.

“Hmm,” I buzzed through pursed lips. “BOTH!”

“I am sorry, Snoe,” Angel said. And to her credit, she did look truly apologetic. “We do not have the time to try and place these children. That army is just ahead, and we need to meet up with the people Erik has waiting for us. We also must get your own people coordinated and prepared to meet this General Carson on a field of
our
choosing, not his. One of the first steps is to wipe out all of the tendrils that he has spread out across this land.”

I knew what she was saying, and in my brain, I also knew that these two lives could not be weighed against the hundreds, perhaps even thousands. That did not mean that I could just leave them to the fates.

“I will not be a part of murdering two children,” I snapped in anger.

Looking back, I realize that I was being a bit overdramatic. Children of this age are taught very early on how to care for themselves. That does not mean that they are equipped to do so, but it was not like we were actually killing them; just greatly reducing their chance of survival.

After a considerable amount of yelling, Angel agreed to send one of her men with these children. There was a village (according to her) about two days south from here. This was where I was going to have to trust her at her word. She would not let me accompany them, and if I left, she threatened to simply ride back to the Confederated Tribal lands and tell them that I slipped away in the night.

I told the children that they would be okay and I was more than a little surprised when one of Angel’s men knelt beside the injured baby and applied this mixture of stuff that smelt like sour mud and almost rotten veggies. He said it was a poultice that would help draw out the infection. Who was I to argue?

We resumed our trek and began to see signs of an army on the move. By the time we made camp, we also saw that this much activity was not going unnoticed by the undead. Zombies were in the wake of this army, and they didn’t have a side…they ate whoever was closest.

Just after I had climbed up into my hammock, three dozen more Natives arrived at our camp. I had to climb back down to hear all that was being said, but it seems that the people on my side are definitely doing their part to prepare for war.

According to reports and a very unflattering description that removed any doubt as to who they were talking about, Betty has sent riders in every direction and has even gone to the rails to spread the word. She is making it known that a militant faction from the east (I thought it was interesting the things she omitted…like who started this uprising and the fact that some form of government has been trying to congeal in the mountains of Colorado in some defunct Old World military center) was coming to try and subjugate every tribe, community and independent settler they could find.

I had to wonder how this message was being received. I can only attest to the tribal communities and the Corridor settlements that I grew up around. I am not sure if her message would be laughed at or taken seriously.

I wondered if this was how wars used to be fought. I know from what I learned in History class that it had become too easy over time. War had become impersonal, which was probably why there was so much of it.

Some of the people old enough to remember said that the news was always full of stories about battles and attacks taking place. Supposedly, there were even attacks on just regular people. I think I heard the phrase “nine-eleven” about a million times before I ever asked about it. Hearing the story, I just can’t wrap my head around what happened on that day.

I do know that one thing a lot of the old-timers mention is that it took the walking dead to bring peace to the Middle East. Since I really don’t know what that means other than supposedly they had been in a fight that lasted thousands of years, I can simply assume that is a big deal.

However, we are now on the brink of what I must consider our first real war. Sure, we have had skirmishes with some of the tribes over the years. And then there are the raiders who come
along and try their luck. But over the last few years, nothing had really happened. It looked like things were going to settle down and start to fully heal.