Zomblog Page 12

  Lots of sporadic gunfire.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, April 1

  I awake with a shudder…and I must’ve yelled because my daughter Beth almost dropped the tray she was carrying with my favorite breakfast: Four eggs over easy, a half rack of thick maple-bacon, fresh grated hash browns with minced garlic, seven grain toast, real butter and marmalade, an ice cold glass of milk, and a steaming cup of fresh ground Millstone Morning Blend coffee, black.

  “Ummm…good morning?” Beth’s raised eyebrow was about as much concern as a teenage daughter can show a father and maintain her aloof image.

  “I had the worst nightmare,” I sat up, rubbing my hands together. “So, what’s the occasion?”

  “You better be kidding,” she placed the tray on my lap, adjusting the legs so I wouldn’t bump it with my clumsy moving about.

  I thought it over. Birthday? No. Father’s day? Nope, that’s in June. Damn.

  “You win,” I stabbed an egg yolk so I could swab my bacon through it.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Megan will be thrilled. You really don’t know?”

  “She’s picking up the last of her crap?”

  “Dad!” Beth walked to my closet and pointed to the tuxedo hanging on the door.

  “She died?”

  “Have you been drinking with The Muses?”

  “Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to cut me some slack. I had the worst damned nightmare last night.”

  “You’re getting married in six hours. If I were you, I’d eat breakfast and take a shower. We can’t share this story with Megan until your guys’ tenth anniversary.” Beth walked over to the window and opened the curtains. The sunlight was so bright it hurt my eyes.

  My bed shook, spilling breakfast all over. Beth fell, bouncing off the foot of my bed and landing with a thud on the floor.

  Two hands reached up and grabbed my bedspread. The skin was waxy and gray. Beth stood up, mouth open in a rattling moan of the undead, staring at me with black bloodshot eyes…

  * * * * *

  I hate nightmares.

  I woke up…for real. There was still the echo of a rumble in the air. Cracks ran through the huge windows in the back of the tavern and the sky was glowing, but it wasn’t daylight.

  After several more explosions, things settled down. The absolute quiet was shredding my nerves. I sat in silence for almost an hour until the sun rose. It took that long to realize I didn’t hear any more pounding outside. Still, I think it best if I wait the day out.

  If I’m being totally honest, that dream hurt me deep in my heart. I keep thinking that maybe I should’ve put a gun in my mouth a long time ago. My body aches all over, and now…so does my soul.

  Wednesday, April 2

  From my window view, I watched a trio of those huge, double-rotor, cargo helicopters fly back and forth several times today. I don’t believe that the military has total control of Spokane. Not just because of the zombies, but those birds took a lot of gunfire. At one point, a pair of fighters came in low and I heard explosions, but could not determine how far off they were. It was enough to rattle the walls here, but the windows are still holding.

  I’ve been debating going out onto the deck. My visibility is pretty limited. If I can get out and look around, I could see more of my surroundings. However, once I break the glass, I risk exposure. And, while I know I have to leave this place soon, I just don’t have the heart to fight…to run…to kill.

  Today…I vow to stick to just drinking water. I might have failed to mention that I polished of a bottle of Jack that first night…two more since.

  Thursday, April 3

  Water seems to be a magic elixir. With my system flushed of alcohol, I am beginning to feel much better. That said, I still haven’t figured out a plan. I sure miss my friends. Strange how when you are around something so much that it is so damned easy to take it for granted. I guess that’s just human nature.

  I imagine that, provided everybody else did better than I, they have written me off for dead and moved on. It is obviously a bad idea to hang around this area. There is constant gun-fire…explosions…screaming. If a city of this size is so chaotic, just how terrible was it in the major metropolises? Is our military taking orders from a central government? Or, is it every province for itself? Are we fighting back…or are we just fighting?

  I have noticed that whenever I hear aircraft come in, the gunfire picks up drastically. I can only deduce that the survivors of Spokane are battling the military as well as the undead. Everybody (or thing in the case of the zombie) is fighting a war on at least two fronts. Since the ground fire I am hearing comes from all over, I can safely conclude that there are multiple pockets of survivors in this city. Are they united? Or do they fight each other?

  * * * * *

  I’ve seen my first miracle! Now I feel that seed of hope I feared had been killed in my internal freeze beginning to grow.

  A few hours ago, I heard gunfire closer than at any time since I’d sealed myself off in this dismal tavern. It was coming from the direction of the creek. I went to investigate. Straining to see anything, I obviously pressed too hard on the pane of glass on the far right while trying to look left of my location. The only warning I had was a loud crack, then the window just collapsed. I had to dive backwards to avoid the cascading rain of glass.

  I could hear a man yelling, and then more gunshots. Part of me worried that the military had figured out where I ran and sent a ground team. Well, the glass definitely gave away my position, so I may as well go down swinging. I only had a few rounds, so I’d make them count.

  I snuck out onto the glass strewn deck and duck-walked to the wrought-iron railing. What I saw froze me. A man and woman were back-to-back with a child, a girl of about age ten, between them. Both had pistols in each hand, blasting every zombie they could. The little girl was loading magazines and handing them to the adults as needed while having the presence to scoop up the discharged magazine from the ground!

  Finally, the spell of astonishment broke and I yelled for their attention. A bullet whizzed past close enough for me to feel heat on my left ear. The woman paused, thankfully, before firing again. She said something, because they angled my way. I couldn’t find a clear shot that would actually be of any help. Instead, I dropped everything and climbed over the rail. Holding onto one of the vertical black iron bars, I leaned down while still struggling to keep my footing on the three-inch lip of balcony.

  The woman said something and the man widened his stance. The child scrambled up his back like a monkey. I clasped her hand and swung her up and over. I was in for a second surprise when she drew a small .22 caliber pistol and began methodically dropping the nearest zombies as the woman now holstered her weapons and tapped the man on the shoulder. He squatted and leaned forward, then, faster than I can describe it, she stepped up onto the small of his back and vaulted upwards. Her hands caught the lip of the balcony and I leaned down to offer help, but she swung a leg up and all I could do was move the hell out of the way. As she scrambled up, the girl was uncoiling a nylon line from around her waist under the leather jacket she was wearing. She dropped the line between the bars and sat down with her feet braced against the bottom crossbar. The woman re-drew her pistols and shouted, “Now, Michael!” The man took one last shot at a naked, middle-aged, balding man-zombie that was about a step away from being able to grab him, then, holstered his weapons, grabbed the line and scurried up. The child only grunted slightly to indicate any strain. As he reached up, the woman clasped his arm and just like that, I met the Thompson Family: Michael, Stephanie, and Amber.

  Friday, April 4

  It seems there is an Air Force base just outside of the city. According to Michael and Stephanie, they’ve been operating what was initially designated an emergency shelter when the whole zombie epidemic started spiraling out of control. The stories coming from folks who left, or as they refer to
it “escaped”, are of abuse and executions.

  The actual commanding officer and many of the upper chain of command died due to bites received early on when folks were still refusing to believe what was hap-pening. There was a bit of a power struggle. Eventually, a man named Captain Terrance Dahl assumed control. He quickly issued orders extending martial law in the city and began broadcasting on a local radio station that all civilians were to remain in their homes and await military evacuation.

  Initially folks were relieved. Only, the evacuation kept being delayed. In a matter of days, the undead outnumbered the citizens. Rumor spread that the captain was intentionally delaying evacuations to “thin the draw on supplies.” Groups of citizens began organizing to take back the city. It is these groups that blocked all the on- and off-ramps leading to the city. The bridge blockade, something put in place by Captain Dahl to keep citizens from leaving the city, was apparently the scene of a terrible battle. Ever since, it has been an ongoing war that has seen increase in the zombie’s numbers.

  Now there are factions in the city fighting for control as well. The Air Force is rumored to be running low on supplies such as fuel and ammunition for their aircraft. A few times they have sent out the huge cargo helos, but they never came back. Also, some of the airmen from the base deserted when they saw the way civilians were being treated. They say that there has been no radio contact in over five weeks from anyplace.

  This confirms what I’ve suspected for quite a while. The world is dead and it is every man and woman for themselves.

  Sunday, April 6

  We had to run. Early this morning a convoy of drab, olive-green military vehicles came up the bank of Hangman Creek. They were unspooling coils of razor wire. Whether it is to keep people and/or zombies out, or in, we have no idea. Still, the fact that they (the military) were so close didn’t initially scare us. However, when a second convoy crept in and unloaded about twenty heavily armed, body-armor wearing individuals who quickly secured a building to our left (a six-story hotel as we discovered when we snuck out) it was time to leave. Best we can guess, the Air Force is moving to secure the main points of entry to Spokane.

  Of course that meant we had to go out the front door. Thankfully, our immediate vicinity was clear as the zombies are down the street doing their best to get at the soldiers, or whatever they are, who are seemingly safe on the roof of the Hangman Creek Inn.

  We made for the parking garage I’d run into when I’d been busy avoiding attack helos. There were a few stragglers that quickly made for us, but their numbers were thin enough that we could avoid them and cut through the building. The far side opened onto a street that looked like something out of news footage when you saw those poor bastards in the Middle East shooting up market places. The buildings were riddled with bullet holes; many had caught fire and burned. There were bodies littering the ground, a few were burned terribly, but still moved and twitched, unable to stand.

  The undead were everywhere, milling in and out of buildings, bumping into one another without seeming to notice. Directly across the street from where we emerged was an avenue that led to a large cathedral with huge wooden double doors. Zombies were all around it. As many as could squeeze in were against the doors, clawing at it to no avail.

  We cut to the right, following the edge of what had once been a huge city park. There were too many trees and shrubs to even consider cutting through. A few times we had to change directions because there were too many undead clustered to safely avoid. Michael and Stephanie were very effective with these iron-tipped mallets they both carried. Even Amber wielded a heavy-duty ball-peen hammer.

  I had not heard the young girl speak much in my couple of days with the Thompsons. In fact, none of them were that talkative. At first I was a little put off, but I just decided that it would take time to build any trust. Hell, if I was Michael, I’d be leery of strangers, too. Especially when it came to my family. The fact that all three of them survived and operated as a single unit to keep each other alive…it’s nothing short of amazing.

  We ran, putting distance between ourselves and the military invaders. I suggested the idea of a hospital, but Michael said that was like walking into a zombie beehive. Before all this he had been a local policeman. That revelation brought a million questions, but I’d wait until we were someplace relatively safe. He said that he had not found a single one of his co-workers after the third day, and that the entire medical district which we’re just on the edge of, had been the epicenter of the death of Spokane. The undead rolled across the city like a tsunami wiping out almost everything in their path. Then, like a wave, they slowly receded back to their point of origin, bringing the fruits of their destruction in their wake.

  We found a strip mall with a sporting goods store that had been ravaged at some point, a video store, and restaurant that had obviously been out of business for quite a while. The sign board still advertised that it was “Available for Lease: call Gina at 71- 3 6”. The restaurant was two-stories high, and a narrow staircase went up one side, likely to an office. It would be feasible to go up the stairs, then, by climbing on the handrail, make it to the roof. This would give us a good spot to scout the area.

  Michael and Stephanie agreed. A handful of minutes later we were on the roof. We’d drawn some attention; a good sized crowd gathering within about twenty minutes. We moved to the center of the building to stay well out of sight and try to plan our next move. A few times we had to duck under the huge air conditioning towers when we heard aircraft approaching.

  So…now we wait until dark. We spotted an armored bank truck about eight blocks north and east from our position. There is a gas station just a few blocks further, if they have a battery charger on a hand truck, we’ll—

  * * * * *

  Holy crap…somebody is in one of the buildings below us! The shooting. The screams.

  * * * * *

  His name is Kevin Davis. He is forty-three years old… and he has been bitten. Twice. The first time—according to him and seemingly verifiable by the almost healed, red, angry scarring—was January 29th.

  He shows no sign of turning.

  Monday, April 7

  Kevin is from Ritzville. He says that there is a group there being led by some fire-and-brimstone preacher who will not allow his followers to kill the zombies. He denies that they actually die, and has a core group of almost a hundred followers.

  The preacher is Randy Davis…Kevin’s brother.

  Apparently the first person infected in Ritzville was Kevin’s dad, Oscar. He returned home sick from his semi-annual trip to Seattle where he’d met up with a bunch of old army buddies. After Oscar turned, he killed Kevin’s mom who was the one to bite Kevin when he came over to check on his folks as the news of the epidemic spread and he hadn’t heard from them in a few days. Randy and Kevin restrained their mom and then found their dad in town wandering down the street. It was later discovered that Oscar had already gone into a neighbor’s house and attacked a thirteen-year-old girl.

  Kevin had come to Spokane for help, but faced the same welcome I had when he arrived the day before yesterday. He said that his brother and those following him are holed up in a World War II bomb shelter with about thirty of those things tied up and in there with them. He was desperately hoping to find a doctor or a pastor or both, but now that he’s been in the city, and in particular the medical district, he sees it as a lost cause.

  As I was helping him change the bandage on his left hand where he was bitten yesterday, I asked if he was going back to Ritzville. He said he has to. He has to try and talk sense into his brother. The five of us leave tonight.

  Tuesday, April 8

  This morning was totally insane! Kevin decided that he would act as a human decoy so that Michael and I could run to the gas station and hopefully get ahold of a battery charger. Stephanie and Amber would get to the armored car and clear it if need be.

  We wanted to move at sunrise because of fears that the military would spot
us easier using infrared goggles. Nobody could say definitively if they were or not, but we chose to err on the side of caution. The sun broke over the hills with what promised to be a warm and visibly beautiful day.

  Kevin had a spot picked out that was fairly open and scaled quickly down a rope to the ground. He began moving up the block, and once he put distance between our building and himself, he picked out the closest car and smashed the windshield with an aluminum bat. He cut around a corner and out of sight, but we heard him smack a couple more vehicles as he moved away not only from us, but from our objectives as well.

  Then we heard automatic weapons being fired. Kevin was carrying a military issue Colt .45 semi-automatic and a shotgun.

  Having no idea who or what was shooting, all we could do was make our run. The zombie traffic was thin at first and we split as the girls cut left to the armored truck while we stayed straight the five blocks further to the gas station. As we reached the gas station, more gunfire erupted. Michael froze in his tracks when we heard the screams of what had to be Stephanie.

  Ducking through the broken front window, I kicked the door open to the garage. You’d think I would have learned by now as this obscenely obese man in stained coveralls lunged out at me. I slipped in the broken glass and landed flat on my back.

  Rick—that was the name on his coveralls—came at me. Thankfully, his six foot, four hundred-plus pound frame did not fit easily through the entryway. My bat had skittered across the floor and under a metal-framed couch with cracking, orange vinyl cushions. I had no choice but to reach for my 9mm. I fired and Rick’s head twitched just slightly. I could barely discern the dark fluid drizzling like cold sap from the hole in his grease smeared face.