Zomblog: The Final Entry (12 page)

Friday, May 14

The sounds of distant gunfire woke us today. Not from the valley below…or Burns to the east. This came from the hills above us. Eric told me to stay put. When I woke, he was already awake and strapping on his gear.

I tried to protest, but he told me that I needed to listen to him “just this once.” He said that Sam and I should find a spot on the next ridge where we could keep a good eye on the highway in both directions. He wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Then, just like that, he was gone into the darkness. I don’t know if it is a Native American thing or what, but he vanished from sight before he even hit the shadows.

Since he’s been gone, I’ve moved like he asked. I can’t really see into the valley/jungle below, but I don’t think that Eric was all that concerned about zombies. I am keeping my eyes on the highway like Eric said…and I haven’t seen a thing.

Something feels very wrong. I don’t know exactly what, but there is a definite
wrongness
. Sam feels it, too. But it isn’t from the road below. There is something in the hills. I may not trust
myself
sometimes, but my dog?

Saturday, May 15

Screams.

Lots and lots of screams.

It is impossible to tell if it is male or female. It has been going on all day long. I hate it. Oh, and Sam doesn’t like it either. He’s actually been hiding between my legs most of the day. And when I stand up, he presses against me.

Funny thing about however many zombies are in that little valley below. They don’t seem inclined to roam. They don’t venture out of the tall grass. I see a lot of movement, but I’ve seen very few actual zombies wandering these parts.

Monday, May 17

I’m in a mostly burned out motel near what can only have been an airfield. I can see the town of Burns, or, more aptly put, I can see the wall. It is a mix of cars, trucks, concrete, and razor wire.

Leave it to rural America, but this town has their shit together. There is no place to approach without crossing a few hundred yards of open, scorched ground. I can see a huge trench that I can only assume circles the entire town. There are towers every quarter mile or so. They’re only ten feet high—the barricade is maybe five—and each is manned. It all makes sense, I guess. Zombies aren’t known to be climbers. Also, there are bridge-like catwalks that span the trench. It is genius. They control where the zombies cross. Then they use hand-held weapons to dispose with the ones that reach the barricade. All of this is speculation, but it makes perfect sense if you actually see their setup.

I’ve seen horse patrols come and go. One even rode out this way. They came close enough so that I could see them clearly as they waved. They know I’m here, and made it a point to let me know that they know. Whoever they were, they pointed to town, and then looked back at the window I was peeking from while trying
not
to expose myself. They made a big production out of shaking their heads “no.” The message is clear: I am not welcome here.

As for Eric, he is sleeping in a nest of our gear on a filthy bed that you don’t need to shine a black light on in order to see just how vile it is. He came back late Sunday night. He was covered in blood; none of it was his. He refused to talk about whatever was going on in the hills. It begs the question: With all we’ve seen these past couple of years, what could be so bad that he won’t even talk about it?

When he got back, he simply told me to grab our gear. We started walking in the dark; something that we never do. Eric says it is foolish to take such a risk like traveling in the dark. That holds true even on a clear night with a bright moon. Funny how things change.

I’ve traveled with people who prefer night and those who prefer day. It is all pretty much the same to me. However, I did come close to breaking my ankles when we moved down out of the hills. Also, the ruined roads are no treat either.

When we spotted the airfield and this place beside it, we found one of the few rooms with intact windows and a door. Eric didn’t even bother to clean up. He curled up into a ball and crashed.

Sam won’t go near him. I couldn’t help myself; I checked his body very thoroughly for bites or scratches. He
looked
clean, although it was hard to be certain with all that blood. As you might have guessed, I won’t be sleeping. I will be watching Eric. Every hour or so, I peel his eyelids up and look for black tracers.

So far, so good.

Tuesday, May 18

Eric is awake. He still won’t talk about what went on up in those hills, but at least he went outside and cleaned up. We were blessed with rain again today. Nothing like the other day; just a nice steady downpour for a while. When it blew over early this afternoon, there was a beautiful rainbow that was brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. It made me understand where that old “pot of gold” myth started. We could see where the rainbow ended in the fields south of us. The ground looked like it was glowing.

Some time in the night, a delegation from Burns left us a note on the door. It is seriously creepy that neither of us heard a thing—more so with Eric than with me. The note was simple:

I guess we’re leaving tomorrow morning.

Thursday, May 20

I’d almost forgotten how scary situations can be when those things get you in their sights. Slow doesn’t mean a damned thing when there are a couple hundred.

Eric and I were cutting through some fields on the route that girl suggested. The sun was high overhead and it was getting too hot for traveling. We were engrossed in one of the first real conversations that we’d had since he came back. Well, actually we were arguing. That’s why we didn’t see them.

I was insistent on doing all our moving early in the morning and finding someplace out of the sun during the worst part of the day. Eric was insisting that it didn’t matter if we sweated out the day in some dreary shelter or dark cave…hot was hot. It was clear that he did not want to travel at night.

Then we heard the first one let loose with that baby cry. I have no idea if Sam was trying to warn us or not, but when that thing cried, he tore away from us and charged the approaching herd of zombies. Of course those stupid walking strips of jerky started falling all over each other trying to get at the noisy, bouncing dog. It was like watching a twisted version of the Keystone Kops.

We both knew that there was no way we could take on that many. If your weapon gets stuck once, you’re through. The biggest problem besides there being so many was that there wasn’t any place to run. We were out in the middle of nowhere amidst gullies, arroyos, and gently rolling—for the most part—hills. Oh…and did I mention that it was hot.

We started at an easy jog. Every hill that we put between us and them gave us a moment or two to catch our breath and alter our course, taking us further and further from the main body. It took almost the entire day to swing wide enough, but we eventually managed to give them the slip. Sam was blessedly quiet while we ran.

It didn’t seem like we would ever actually shake them. By the time the sun was at our back, I began to think that we might not escape this one intact. Then we found what I’m pretty sure was a wheat field. It had grown into something else. All those vines and plants that I would call weeds were in a battle to reclaim the land. The actual rows were hard to find, but we were able to weasel our way through.

When we found the great big John Deere, Eric came up with a brilliant plan. So now we’re sitting in this huge storage section. We even have a bed of decomposing stalks to rest on. It smells like rotten leaves, and there are a lot of bugs, but it is better than being eaten by zombies. We’ve heard them pass by for the last couple of hours and the sun will be setting soon.

The smell ain’t the greatest, but I’ve smelled worse. I’m not exactly sure where we are, and we won’t know until tomorrow if our little plan worked. The hope is that when we peek over the lip of this long, metal bin…the coast will be clear. We’ll resume heading east until we rejoin the highway. Our gas station map says that we shouldn’t run into much more than pencil-dot towns until we cross into Nevada.

Hard to say what we will find in the small towns, but I’m actually a little tingly when I think about reaching Winnemucca. Not only will it represent the best chance at scavenging, it should provide a challenge…some real fighting. What the hell is wrong with me?

Sunday, May 23

Nothing. That is all there is to see for miles in every direction. To the south, I can see the uneven horizon of a distant mountain range. The landscape will funnel us to the remnants of the highway…eventually. But for now, there is just nothing here.

To the southwest we’ve seen tendrils of smoke from multiple small fires. Eric is convinced that there is a small community over there; probably on the shores of Malheur Lake.

There are a surprising number of streams and creeks to be found. I don’t know what exactly I expected, but after miles of high desert, this is like a whole other world. We’ve discovered an abundance of edible plants, and even rabbits. Lots of rabbits. Either the zombies aren’t interested, or they just can’t catch them.

Monday, May 24

Thunder. Lightning. Rain.

Tuesday, May 25

The reddish-brown clay or dirt, or whatever the hell you call the crap that is so dominant around these parts, is sticking to everything. Every hour or so, we have to stop in order to scrape the stuff off the tires of our carts and the soles of our boots. It would be a disaster if we have to move with any sort of urgency. We are finding that more and more of the highway is gone.

Also, we ran across something that made us stop for the day: a military caravan. Tanks, Jeeps, troop transports, the whole ball of wax are here. There isn’t a sign of a living soul having been through here in…ever. Even though we don’t expect to find anything too exciting—that is still functional—we will search everything thoroughly in the morning. Tonight, I’m sleeping in an honest-to-goodness tank. Alone. You never realize how much you miss your privacy until you never have any.

Wednesday, May 26

Swapped out into some nicer boots. I’m fairly certain he won’t miss them. More and more I am finding that I have lowered my standards on what is acceptable. For instance, the young man whom I discovered inside a tank with his brains blown out from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the face; it wasn’t until just now that I gave a thought to the fact that I peeled his boots off his feet. Or that they are now snuggly fitting on my own.

Tonight we’re in a tiny one stoplight town called Lawen. There is nothing to see. However, there was a bottle of disinfectant on the shelf of this little market. After ransacking a few residences—mostly trailers—I also happened across some ultra-thick socks. Eric hit the real jackpot, though. He found a never-been-opened three-pack of tightie-whities. In his size!

Thursday, May 27

All day long we had a lone shambler on our tail. We’ve been walking along Highway 78 all this time, and today we settled into a groove along this stretch of empty, void-of-any-life, washed out road. At some point, I glanced over my shoulder and saw it. It was just a dark shape moving through the shimmering waves of heat rising off the ground on the horizon. I mentioned it to Eric and, in typical fashion, he shrugged and continued walking.

About midday, I asked him if we should double-back and kill it. He explained that it didn’t seem to be drawing a crowd, so what was the problem. I didn’t really have an answer. We found an abandoned farm house on the edge of a cluster of circular crops and made camp. Just before sunset, the zombie staggered up to the porch. It was a woman. You could hear the skin crackle as she moved, and there were nests of insects moving about inside her ripped open and long-since-dried abdomen. A couple of splintered ribs poked through the parchment that was her skin. Also, I’d say she’s taken a few dozen bullets; one that shattered her lower jaw.

I ended her existence by planting my axe in her forehead. Afterwards, Eric and I sat down for a bitter—but strangely good—dandelion salad with a dash of apple vinegar and a pair of roasted rabbits.

Is this really all there is? I am beginning to wonder why I’m doing this. Don’t get me wrong, I do not doubt my choices, nor will I be going out and tossing myself into a ravenous herd of zombies any time soon. I am simply trying to figure out what possessed me to do this. And to take that question one step further; why did Eric join me?

What do I really hope to find in Vegas? And let’s say that the lights are on. Will I settle down and call it home? Why would I think I will be any happier there than at The Compound, Sunset Fortress…or Irony, USA for that matter?

All I’m truly doing is roaming a dead world. What would all the shrinks—who seemed to have a label for everything back in the pre-apocalyptic world—say about me? Was I always like this? Or, did the situation mold me into who I am now. I mean, I’ve met some wonderful people, and I’ve met some monsters disguised as human beings. Did this event bring out the “real” person lurking inside each of us? Did it break us all in some way, and this is the Phoenix that rose from the individual ashes?

I can hear the low, distant rumble of thunder. The smell of rain is floating on the night breeze. A chill is in the air just like any other night in the desert and I’m sensing…something.

There is that wrongness out there in the darkness again. When I close my eyes, I can feel it closing in. Not just on me. On everybody.

Saturday, May 29

We didn’t travel far these past couple of days. We found a small town. Unfortunately it has been mostly burned to the ground. However, there were a few places to rummage through.