Zomblog: The Final Entry Page 8

  Whatever.

  Tonight, I’m going to sleep in this empty house and try not to concentrate on the fact that I almost cost us everything while Eric re-packs the harness cart that he was smart enough to go back for and stock with a few cans he scavenged while waiting patiently to find the crazy white girl.

  Saturday April 25

  We found one of those shiny silver trailers on an overgrown lot all by itself today. It was just sitting there. There wasn’t anything special about it. Not one single, solitary thing.

  So…I have no idea how Eric knew.

  Inside was a mummified family. A father. A mother. Two children: both girls. Each had a bullet hole in the head. The father obviously went last. He was still holding the small caliber pistol in his hand. (I didn’t get close enough to take a look.) Eric made me wait outside. He didn’t actually go in either. He stood in the open door and got a good look…to confirm his theory, I guess.

  Then, he asked me to go wait at the highway. I didn’t even think of arguing or asking questions. I could tell there was something going on here. He seemed to look around in the bushes for a little while, plucking up different plants. Once he had what he wanted, he set them on the top step and lit them on fire.

  I’ve never actually heard a real-live Indian…Native American song…you know what I mean. Anyways, I’ve never heard one chant or sing. I didn’t understand one single syllable. But I’ve never heard anything that made me feel so sad—and your’re dealing with a girl who cried for six months after seeing Titanic every time that Celine Dion song would come on the radio.

  Eric knelt in the dirt and raised his hands to the sky and just started. He went on for twenty minutes at least. I had to kill four roamers that came wandering out of the high brush that dominates the landscape here. I guess he just trusted that I’d take care of it. But part of me thinks he would’ve done the same thing if were all alone. He hasn’t spoken since.

  Monday April 26

  Great. Prineville is a wreck. But…we are learning that multiplexes are great places to camp out. Even more specific, the bathrooms. We have a fire going in the sink. It isn’t a roaring blaze, but it allows us to see and prepare food; so it’s all good.

  This little complex we are using has a few other bonuses. There is a small emergency clinic and a few restaurants. Of course the restaurants were mostly busts, but we found a few things. As for the clinics, it’s funny. Obviously the place has been looted, but by people looking for drugs. We scored a few bottles of iodine, hydrogen peroxide, and even a couple of bottles of isopropyl alcohol. Not to mention bandages and other useful first aid knick knacks.

  Just up from here is a huge park. It shows signs of having hastily built fencing. But I was interested in the three burned out husks of what were obviously military helicopters. There are a lot of dried out corpses littering the ground. It’s clear that birds and other things have picked them fairly clean. I shudder to think of how bad this nightmare would be if birds turned into zombies. But…would they be able to fly? I dont know if they’d have the ability to keep themselves airborne. Still…yucky!

  Tuesday, April 27

  Thankfully there is plenty of brush to use as a screen. We didn’t feel like scavenging in Prineville. Too crowded. We’re back on the desolate and empty road. We’re on some back road that cuts through absolutely nowhere and nothing. Zombies probably won’t be a problem…but boredom might prove to be fatal.

  Wednesday, April 28

  The good thing about being in the middle of nowhere is the chance to get your head straight. I finally spoke with Eric about Madras. I told him how sorry I was, and about how I would try hard not to do such stupid things.

  Eric’s response?

  “Meredith, it would not be good for you to change your nature. It is what makes you all that you are.” Then he told me some story about a frog giving a scorpion a ride on its back across a stream. The scorpion ends up stinging the frog, killing them both. Ooo-kaaay. So…am I the scorpion?

  Sheesh!

  Thursday, April 29

  Hiding in a leaky barn. It opened up today. I mean the sky just started dumping and there’s been thunder and lightning almost non-stop. So…we’re cold, wet, and miserable. But Eric shouldn’t mind…he’s a frog. Right?

  Sunday, May 2

  We’ve been forced to travel at night the past couple of days. That sounds funny…but anyways…

  A fairly large band of people have apparently laid claim to this area. We found the first signs of them when we set out after that wicked storm.

  A man was strung up by his feet from a road sign. He’d turned and was squirming, but what was upsetting was the child, no more than five, sitting on the ground. The somewhat fresh blood caking her mouth, coupled with the smallish bites on the man’s arms…and face…told the gruesome story.

  The child had been a zombie for quite a while. That added another layer of “what the fuck?” to the scene. It must’ve been done during the storm, because we should’ve heard the screams. That is how recent this was. Also, the ground was a pretty obvious giveaway. There was a lot of foot activity in the mud around the sign. The good news is that it looks as if the mystery group headed west. We are going east.

  Yay!

  Monday, May 3

  I thought I knew what desolation was. Nope! My God, there is NOTHING out here.

  Tuesday, May 4

  We’re hiding in a drainage pipe while a sandstorm howls out on this flat, godforsaken stretch of the world. I’d been noticing long sections of the highway that looked like they had been washed away or something. Now I know…it’s simply covered with inches or feet of blown dirt and sand. Oregon has an actual desert. Who knew?

  Wednesday, May 5

  Woo-hoo! Cinco de Mayo. All we’re missing is the chips, salsa, tequila, and one of those big hats to dance around. Lord knows we’ve got plenty of hot sun beating down on us, making us go through our water waaay faster than normal.

  We saw a little action today. A creeper. It literally burst out of this mound of sand. It was like a desert version of when zombies get covered with ice and snow. It was so dried out that we couldn’t tell if it’d been male or female…but that wasn’t the problem.

  I drove my spear through its head, but it looked like it was still moving. My concern was that, for some reason, destroying the brain didn’t cut it any more. Then this cluster of scorpions came scurrying out of its hollowed out abdomen.

  I’m trying super-hard not to giggle as I write this, because then Eric will know that I am writing how he screamed and ran…faster and higher-pitched than I did. It was probably reckless, but we hauled butt down the highway.

  Also, we’ve seen signs of other survivors today. A campfire was still smoldering, and there were a few empty cans at one spot beside a stretch where you could actually differentiate between the road and the flat, barren, brown landscape.

  We couldn’t really find an honest-to-goodness shelter for the night, so we’re sleeping under the stars. I’m taking first shift. Eric insists that he heard an engine at one point. I didn’t hear anything, and Sam’s ears didn’t as much as twitch. I guess it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely.

  Vehicles are little more than dinosaurs. Most folks abandon them because they’d bring zombies from miles away. Plus, it’s not like there’s any reason to be in a hurry these days.

  Thursday, May 6

  We’ve walked down this empty stretch of road for what seems to be forever.

  It was almost midday when Eric pulled me up. In the distance, the sun was reflecting off of something. The closer we got, we began to notice other details like the chest-high fence. What we initially mistook as a small car wreck proved to be more of a makeshift barricade.

  Here, in the middle of the Oregon high desert, there exists a small community. I wouldn’t put their numbers above fifty. They have a creek that runs through and everything. It seems that all their needs are provided for. We were briefly questioned and asked our in
tentions. Nobody tried to insist on anything. Not even a body inspection. Then I noticed all the dogs. There are dozens—five to every human at least—just wandering free.

  We dropped in to check out their trading post and I picked up a set of military-issue boots that fit perfectly. The price was steep—three cans of food and a pair of thick, wool socks—but since I’m on the move, I’ll probably have no problem replacing what I traded away.

  Of course, I could have found a pair of boots. It was more about the interaction with the lady that runs the shop. Oh…and naturally…Eric got absolute nothing.

  As we headed out, a sign caught my eye: Joe’s Diner.

  It wasn’t much to look at. The sign was basically scrawled on the ripped off hood of a car in very faded, white paint. The ‘restaurant’ was one of those silver, bullet-shaped trailers with one side cut off and a plastic tarp extended over some rickety card tables and rusty lawn chairs. There was a counter where the woman took the order and gave them to a cook behind a window.

  It was when we got up to the counter that things started to not look quite right. The waitress was missing most of her teeth. Her skin was…sickly is the best description I could give you. She had sores and huge bruises all over that you could actually see through her pinkish threadbare blouse. Her hair was thin and wispy, completely gone in patches.

  She gave me a dirty look when we made eye contact. I can’t blame her, I’m pretty certain that my revulsion was clearly visible on my face. As for Eric, not even a twitch around the corners of his eyes.

  I’d already decided that it was a mistake and we wouldn’t be eating here. Still, the post-apocalyptic ‘Flo’ placed a laminated sheet in front of us. Written on it were the two choices that this place had: Snake Soup and Judge’s Stew.

  As the waitress-from-hell was getting us our complimentary glass of water—just as the sheet promised at the bottom in writing in what looked like the only thing that didn’t get changed daily—I took a look at the other patrons. They all seemed far too interested in Sam. I noticed one gaunt man in particular. He stuck out because of all the folds of skin hanging around his torso. Currently the guy looked to weigh no more than one hundred fifty pounds tops. However, he must have easily weighed over three hundred pounds before. (I think I now know why Jared from Subway never did bathing suit ads.) Somebody who loses that much fat that quickly doesn’t lose the stretched out skin.

  When I turned back, our water was being set before us. I tried to ignore the beige hue. Then Eric asked the sixty-thousand-dollar question.

  “What is Judge’s Stew?”

  “Trial two days ago for a pair of fellas that got a bit too rough with one of Madam Judy’s working girls. Judge found them guilty and sentenced them to hangin’.”

  “You mean…?” I tried to ask, but couldn’t say the words.

  “Can’t be wastin’ perfectly good meat these days, little Missy,” she croaked.

  Okay. I probably come off a bit snooty with a statement like “she croaked.” So, I’ll leave it to you. Did you ever know a chain-smoker? I’m talking lighting the next one with the one still dangling from their lips. That kind of chain-smoker. Okay. So the chain-smoker’s voice would sound as smooth as Sinatra if compared to this waitress.

  Still think I’m being a bitch?

  Now, you’d think that’d been enough. You’d think that Eric would have taken my glare, raised eyebrows, and not so subtle tilt of my head towards the road out front that would take us away from this roadside circle of Dante’s Inferno.

  Nope. The big dummy ordered the Snake Soup. Personally, I think he did it on purpose to screw with me.

  Saturday, May 8

  Her name is Tricia Maio (pronounced like mayo short for mayonnaise). She used to be a dancer. Judging by her body, I bet she made a fortune off of desperate, middle-aged men. Seriously, I’m very hetero, but she made my tummy tingle. Oh…and Eric? Not so much as a batted eyelash.

  Anyways, we met Tricia at a ransacked old gas station sitting off the well-covered-by-sand highway. There was an intact off ramp that we decided was as good as any to search for the possibility of camping out for the night. Imagine our surprise when we peeked through the busted out front windows to discover a naked lady hanging her clothes over a small fire concealed behind the checkout counter.

  She’d been in a nasty fight with a small pack of zombies earlier in the day. She’d washed the worst of the gore from her clothes in an old, yellow, plastic mop bucket that she’d found in a closet.

  When I’d asked about the water, she told me that there was a small spring just out back that drains into a pond that has two large concrete pipes at the lowest end. She’s pretty certain that they lead to a nearby reservoir a few miles away.

  I lent her some of my clothes so that she wouldn’t have to stand around naked in front of strangers. I’m not sure who I was trying to make feel better. Still, that led to the obvious question.

  “Where the hell is the rest of your stuff?”

  She said that a small herd of a couple hundred zombies caught her off guard. She was camped out in some random apartments. She had to leave her backpack and could only bring what she could carry in the pockets of her heavy field jacket. She escaped by climbing up on the roof—which couldn’t have been that easy considering that she had to use a piece of metal pipe to bust a hole through it when she climbed into the overhead crawl space. By getting most of the zombies down to one end, she was able to run to the other and jump.

  She eluded most of them, but then ended up having to fend off a fair amount. Hence being such a mess and needing to clean up.

  I asked her where she was heading. She said that some travelers heading south told her about a safe zone on Mount Hood. I filled her in on the details, including the situation regarding the Warm Springs Reservation. I also hinted where we were headed.

  Tricia is coming from Utah and didn’t have any info about Nevada. I asked about Utah, mostly just curious to hear if it was as bad as every other place I’ve been. I never considered how a heavily religious region might react and respond to an event like this. She said that the zombies were almost less of a concern when compared to some of the zealot extremists. Oddly, the main body of the Mormons wasn’t a problem. It was the offshoots that continued to lurk in the shadows. It seems that there is a very male-centric core that view women as subjects, servants, and vessels to carry their offspring.

  Some sort of Holy War erupted and a lot of people were killed by the lunatic fringe. I guess, right up to the end, the elders of the central body were condemning the extremists…all the way up to the point when an eighteen-wheeled car bomb was rolled into their main cathedral in downtown Salt Lake City.

  Sunday, May 9

  Tricia was gone when we woke.

  My clothes were neatly folded and sitting on the counter. I think she did Eric last night when I was sleeping. He seems to be in a strangely cheerful mood.

  Whatever.

  Monday, May 10

  We should be reaching Burns, Oregon soon. Eric says that we might be able to replenish supplies there. The population was scarce and spread out. There really wasn’t that much to Burns before. At least that’s what Eric says.

  Eric explains that we need to be on guard. Burns being so rural, there is a high probability that some of the yokels may have survived. Towns like Burns had a heavy gun-to-person ratio. I remember the carnage on the streets of some of the small towns we’ve been through.

  We haven’t seen a zombie all day. And in some respects, that actually seems kinda creepy. A lack of undead can mean a lot of things. Not all of them are good.

  Tuesday, May 11

  At the best of times, children were something I was always thankful for NOT having to deal with. I mean, it was always nice to visit friends or family with rugrats of their own…and leave when they got tiresome. (My personal best being about two hours.) If they cried and wouldn’t stop…hand them to mommy. Dirty diaper?…point, hold my nose, and leave the room. S
ee? Simple.

  And yeah, I’m aware I’ve given birth to a child. However, I knew myself well enough to know it was a bad match. I am not a good candidate for parenthood. I am saying all this so that I can also clarify that I’ve never wished harm on children. (Also, in case you are wondering, yes, I do still think about my daughter. I still feel like I made the right choice of parents. I gave her to a good couple, and The Warehouse is probably the safest place I know.)

  So why am I blathering on about all this? Well, it has been a rough day. We were moving along, Sam trotting ahead marking every shrub, clump of grass, or abandoned vehicle we passed. Then we heard the scream. It was coming from beyond a ridge off to our right.

  Needless to say, we ran to find out what the hell was going on. We had to keep Sam back. Eric held him by the scruff of his neck while I moved ahead to check out the situation. You might criticize us for taking too long to respond to an obvious emergency, but rushing blindly into anything these days will just get everybody killed.

  I was in no way prepared for what I saw.

  Five girls—ages fifteen to (maybe) twenty—were up on an abandoned RV. It was that kind that isn’t much bigger than a pick-up truck. Dangling from the rear was a man. Naked. About a dozen creepers were flailing and squirming, trying their best to get ahold of the man. I could see that one of his arms was dripping blood. It was obvious that he’d been snacked on already.