Zomblog: The Final Entry (4 page)

Moving back through the city and out of the relatively well-patrolled area I’ve called home for the past several months, I heard something I haven’t heard in a long time. In fact it was conspicuous in its absence…gunfire. Yep, folks are still out here in pockets of who-knows-how-many. Some still have good ammo to use in their fight to live just one more day.

Funny. If humanity as a whole were a dog or horse or something, we’d say put it out of its misery. There is something to be said about either our ability to survive (like the cockroach), or our refusal to accept death as an alternative.

Tuesday, February 2

THAT was more like it!

We crossed the bridge today. I came close to actually considering my chances with the ice cold water of the Willamette River (which has chunks of ice the size of cars floating in it).

We got up early because Eric said he wanted to cross the bridge
before
sunrise. So, after I was done cursing at him, we packed up and got moving. Sam didn’t seem to mind and was bounding along like we were going to the park. He sniffed and peed on everything.

As we moved up the on-ramp, my happy puppy suddenly switched into Growly Dog. All the hair on his back was standing up, and he stepped back to be right at my side. I already knew from my previous crossing of the bridge that some of those things were trapped inside their vehicles. I thought that was what Sam had started growling at. (Apparently someplace where it is okay to end a sentence with a preposition.)

Silly Meredith.

We were actually on the bridge just as the eastern horizon was turning a lovely shade of pink. The appearance of a few bobbing shadows had me drawing my scimitars. (Did I mention that I’d taken time practicing using them in both hands simultaneously? I’m still a bit awkward, but steadily improving.) Eric drew this really sweet looking saber he found at a museum. Just like that, we were ready.

He moved to the left side of the bridge and I took the right. Fighting close has its uses at times, but outside like this, it is often better to have some space between yourself and your companions. Sam stayed glued to my side—good doggy!—and I readied myself for the fight. I counted an even dozen coming just for little old me. Eric looked like he would be facing double that.

The first one closed to within range, a black kid in what looked to have been his early teens. He was wearing a Portland basketball jersey with the number twenty-two. My blade caught him in the temple. Ah yes…the stinging buzz…how I’ve missed it so. I snapped my wrist back to keep the blade from catching in the skull as the zombie dropped at my feet.

Ducking beneath the outstretched arms of the next one, I popped up and simultaneously brought my blade under the chin of one zombie and straight up into the brain while kicking back at the one I’d ducked, sending it over the rail and to the river below.

It took me a few seconds to realize that Sam was facing back the way we’d come. He was hunched over and snarling something fierce. I glanced, and had to do a double-take. They were rail-to-rail, and coming for us. So much for them being scattered to the Four Winds after two years. I gave a warning whistle to Eric and he responded with an acknowledging hoot; Eric can’t whistle.

I transformed into a dervish. That was a mistake. I have not been out in a while and forgot that, in situations like the one we were facing, you need to remain methodical and even. Not only did I have to spend energy on hitting a zombie for a second or even third time because I wasn’t aiming, but I wore down from the constancy of the fight.

The ground became so slick that I started having difficulty with my footing. Then there was the creeper that I totally missed. It grabbed my left wrist—the little girl couldn’t have been more than six years old when she’d been pulled apart—and yanked me off balance as I was trying to recover from one of the times when I’d slipped. I drove one of my blades into the top of her skull and rolled away as two more zombies sorta belly flopped right where I’d just been sprawled.

Getting to my knees, I felt something grab my left hand. My scimitar clattered to the pavement and I screamed as I felt teeth grinding down on my bones. Thank God for the mesh lining in the gloves. I made eye contact with Eric, and even from this far across the bridge, I could see the concern clearly etched in his face. I shook my head and went back to fighting. I started by punching the zombie gnashing on my hand square in the nose. Next, I shoved my other blade into his face. It fell…taking my glove with it. I absolutely did not have the time to retrieve it.

I was now surrounded.

That was when I considered the rail. By now, Sam was going berserk. He was growling, nipping, and tugging at the hems of these things that had me surrounded. I quickly realized that if I jumped, my chance of survival was zero. It wasn’t just how high up we were, but that combined with the ice chunks made for a bad situation. I sought the thinnest point in their little line, and burst through the shrinking circle of undead. I still get the heebie-jeebies thinking about all those dead hands brushing my skin.

Ewww!

When I popped out the other side, I discovered Sam bounding around in a tizzy. He was giving this lady bus driver a real problem. I planted my blade in the back of her skull on the way past. Eric had fared much better. A pile of corpses were strewn about him.

We jogged the rest of the way across the bridge and decided to zig through a ruined neighborhood where we found an empty two-story house that looked exactly like every other house we passed. I have no explanation or logic behind our choice, it was simply luck. We totally scored!

We didn’t have to touch any of our supplies and I am stuffed. It will almost suck to leave this place tomorrow. I just polished off two cans of mandarin oranges, a jar of sundried tomatoes in olive oil, and a tin of smoked oysters. Right now I am snacking on some magnificently stale Grandma’s oatmeal cookies. (Don’t knock wax packaging.)

It only gets better. I found a Sony Discman portable CD player. Right now I am curled up in a wicker Papasan chair with overstuffed cushions. Sam is in my lap under the blankies, and I am listening to Mozart. The disc says this is
Requiem
, which I realize is somewhat ironic giving the state of things. Eric said it was creepy, but I think it is beautiful. I found a package of a dozen batteries that work, but I will use this sparingly. It is an absolute treasure. There was a cd wallet with a few dozen discs in it. I plan on finding a way to bring this with me.

We really did take a lot of things for granted in the Old World. So much was readily available that it didn’t require thought…just want. And now, music like this might be gone forever.
This
is what I meant about living. The simple act of finding this and hearing the music brought real tears to my eyes.

Eric is in the next room snoring. Every time I change the discs or there is a break between tracks on the cd, I hear him. Is there a more abrasive sound than snoring in this world? I think not. I’ll even take wailing zombies over that sound.

It is almost dark outside. From my seat, I can look out the window to the street below. The dead stroll by like there is a twenty-four hour block party happening. Sometimes, one comes up to this house in particular. It paws at the door or scratches at the boards covering the windows, and then it wanders off. I think I’ll stop writing for a bit and just enjoy this little luxury.

Friday, February 5

Someplace close there is a freakin’ war goin’ on! We’ve taken refuge in—of all things—a trailer park beside the highway. From here we can see an apartment complex across the way. Five of the three-story units are ablaze. Occasionally I can see shadowy forms dashing one way or the other. Also, we keep seeing bright flashes arc through the sky. (I think it is Molotov cocktails.)

Obviously this place has been picked clean. The trailer we are hiding in is nothing more than a shell. Even the wiring is gone. Sam doesn’t like it at all.

The best thing about what is going on out there right now is that the zombies are drawn to all the activity on the other side of the highway. I haven’t heard any sounds to indicate that either side has firearms. It is actually sort of creepy. Sometimes there is screaming. I can remember a time when I might’ve felt the need to go over there and get involved…pick a side. Not anymore.

Saturday, February 6

Highway 26 is also called Mount Hood Highway. We are out of the more densely populated areas and now camped in a farmhouse. The sign we passed, and eventually decided to turn down, said this is ‘SE Stone Rd.’ It intersected the highway and seemed as good of a place as any to turn off and look for our nightly lodgings.

There has been a herd through here recently. You can tell it is recent because the swathe of destruction isn’t all mucky and full of puddles from this morning’s rain shower. (Actually, that was Eric’s observation, but once I looked and gave it some thought, it was kind of obvious.) The rain came early, but it has been sunny all day. Well, at least until about five minutes ago. Now all the trenches made by an undead army on the move are filling with water.

The field out back has about a twenty-yard-wide ‘path’ trampled through it. I wonder what started them this way. The reason I am curious is that, whatever used to grow in that field, it’s now a head-high jungle. I’ve seen a few herds, and they always take the path of least resistance. The main body usually sticks to the road and the overspill will flow into the adjacent yards or fields. This group turned off the road and went into the field…like it was in pursuit of something or somebody.

Of course we checked it out up close. Not even a straggler in sight. There were the usual bits and pieces. Sam wouldn’t step a foot in the area. Eric had a moment of unusual mirthfulness. We were poking around and he came up to me with an arm! After I gave an embarrassing shriek—and he stopped laughing—he held out the arm to me and insisted that I look. I did, but was obviously missing something.

“The watch,” he said, holding the arm up for closer inspection. I looked and shrugged. “It’s a Montblanc,” Eric snickered as he pointed to the grime-smeared timepiece.

I still didn’t get what the dickens he was trying to say.

“This watch was worth more than I made in a year…and I had a decent job.” He chuckled, and then tossed the arm into the tall growth.

I watched it sail, proud that I refused to make a comment about how time flies. As we resumed our search for a place to sleep, I began to wonder. What was wrong with our society that a man—it was definitely a man’s arm—could wear a watch that cost more than what a “normal” person made in a year? I mean, I get the whole “haves” and “have nots” thing. It is a fact of life…even today. I have seen groups come in with people on the verge of starvation, teeth falling out, skin laced with lesions. Meanwhile, those living along the corridor are eating three meals a day and holding parties complete with alcoholic beverages.

Perhaps we are unredeemable.

Sunday, February 7

Haven’t gone far today. The night brought in some more nasty weather. Everything is coated with about a quarter inch of ice. It looks beautiful, but it is all but impossible to move around in. And as for fighting zombies in it? That’s just asking for trouble.

I spent this afternoon cleaning and sharpening weapons. There wasn’t much to glean from this place, but it was kinda interesting flipping through photo albums. I played a little game, giving each picture a story and some dialog. Eric was a curiously attentive audience. Sam, on the other hand, could’ve cared less. All that mattered to him was the occasional scratch behind the ears.

Monday, February 8

Outside, the sounds of Mother Nature kicking ass can be heard. Branches and all sorts of hanging and dangly things are popping, snapping, and breaking. We’ve been lucky, this old house is holding up fine. There weren’t any trees in the yard that could prove a hazard. That had nothing to do with our choice when we picked it, but it gives us something to actually be aware of next time.

We are keeping a fire blazing around the clock. It is FUH-REE-ZIN outside!

Tuesday, February 9

Somebody died late last night. Sam woke me with his growls. Eric and I were up and armed in a flash before either of us realized what was going on. Peeking out of the tarp-covered window (we do that to hide the light from our fire) we couldn’t see anything in the absolute darkness of a dead world. Then we heard it: The Scream.

I won’t ever get used to that sound. A human being makes a very distinct shriek when they are being ripped open, torn apart, and feasted upon. I am sure I don’t have to tell you. If you’re reading this, you’ve survived long enough to have heard it a hundred, if not a thousand, times. It is like no other sound in the world.

The good news is that the weather seems to be clearing up again. We are hoping to move on tomorrow. Good thing…I’m getting a little stir crazy. If I try to sharpen my blades again, or re-organize my cart, I think Eric will smack me.

Wednesday, February 10

We’re spending the night in a little colony. We met one of their scouting parties early this morning. This group is surprisingly well-supplied, armed, and organized for as out in the open as they seem to live.

Oh…did I mention that the oldest person in this group is seventeen?

This place used to be some sort of small Christian school back in the day. All of the children here—and I only use the term technically as they all seem quite grown up—were at a “lock in” at the church to support a drug-free life or something. They were all praying or whatever people did at those sorts of things. However, one of the “bad” kids had managed to sneak in a radio. He heard the first big news report and told the others. Of course they didn’t believe him. When morning came and the bus driver didn’t show up to take the kids home, they started trying to reach their parents. The youth group leader was the first to reach somebody. That person said the same thing that any of the children who actually manged to get through to somebody heard: STAY PUT! We’ll come for you as soon as we can.