Carrot on a Stick

 

Tarot card from the Rider-Waite tarot deck, al...

Tarot card from the Rider-Waite tarot deck, also known as the Rider-Waite-Smith deck. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rumors are going round it’s the military that’s maintaining the civilian communication systems. I’m going along with this explanation until a better rumor comes along. My gratitude goes out to whomever is responsible. Despite the fact that the service windows are random and fleeting, I’m still thankful for what we have. Life will be far darker when we lose all contact with each other.

A short while ago, I received a text from Sparkman. A distress call, actually. Blundered into a nest of rotters and escaped by climbing a water tower on the edge of town about three miles from here. If what I’ve heard about the dead’s inability to grasp the fundamentals of ladder climbing is true, Sparkman should be safe for now. Problem is that without a distraction, there’s no way down. Although the view is probably very nice from up there, food and water are in short supply. (The tower hasn’t held water in years)

I’m a coward by nature. The last thing in the world I want to do is leave my cozy sanctuary. I like things the way they are, with me on one side of the door and the rotters on the other. I can’t believe I volunteered to help. If on the chance I carry off the rescue and make it back in one piece, I expect I’ll have a thing or two worth writing about.

If I find the nerve, I’ll leave at first light.

One last thing. Sparkman, it turns out, isn’t a he.

Solitude’s Not All It’s Cracked Up To Be

English: Jack Daniels whiskey

English: Jack Daniels whiskey (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sparkman’s alive! He texted me not two hours ago. Says he was worried the ones doing the shooting in Moulder would home in on his cell signal, so he removed the battery. He stayed until he saw the helicopters leave the area and figured it was time to split. Good figuring on his part. He missed his own cremation by a few ticks of the clock. He didn’t risk texting me until everything went to hell.

All to Hell. Have you stopped to think just how much the end of the world messes with your plans. I’ve prepared for this day for three years. I saw myself, all righteous and alone, weathering an alien invasion, or a civil war, nuclear holocaust, or a pandemic of Biblical proportions. I guess number four is what we got. Funny, the one scenario I never believed could happen was a stupid Zombie Apocalypse. Damn, I wish they weren’t dead. That’s what makes the whole end of the world thing seem so unreal, like it’s just some really bad Hollywood dream. I mean, if E.T. were wiping us out, that would make sense. But with these walking chum-buckets, how do you make sense of anything?

Not that it matters a rat’s ass, but I’m getting off track. Maybe that’s my point. Solitude sucks. I’ve been holed up here for what, five or six days? Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s only been a couple of days. Just seems like forever. Losing my mind. Where was I going with this?

Sparkman! That’s where I was going. He’s got nowhere safe to go. Hard to believe, right? He pulls off this James Bond spy shit, and yet he has no place to stay? I know, right?

So I invited him to stay here. The reason being I hate being here alone with those things wandering outside the door. For the first time in my life, solitude is creeping me out.

Here’s the kicker.He took me up on my offer. So the question now is can he make it here without gettin’ et? I promised I’d break out the Jack Daniels if he did.

As you probably can tell from my writing, I sort of jumped the gun on the whiskey.

Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

RIP

RIP (Photo credit: giveawayboy)

It seems like T. S. Eliot was wrong. The world’s not going to end with whimper or a bang. It would appear a scream will have the last word.

We are on our own. The government is lying to you about those with the plague who die. The You Tube evidence is overwhelming. The dead are returning to life and eating the living. The plaque cannot be contained. It’s simply too late.

In twenty-four hours, the plague has spread from Tucson, Az. to six major U.S. cities and an indeterminate number of smaller cities and towns. Do not count on the CDC. The overnight discovery of a remedy is the stuff of science fiction. If you’re waiting for the military to get this under control, wake up. What chance do they have against an army of millions which is spreading like rot through a basket of old fruit? Short of nuking the entire country, the best the military can hope to do is set up perimeters around wherever they’re stationed and weather the storm. I advise you to do the same.

Gather your friends and family. Board up your windows and doors. Bunker down. Keep your weapons ready and don’t hesitate to use them when the time comes—there is no if.

Our lives are about to turn grisly, if that’s not the case for you already. Those who grasp this concept early on will gain an edge on survival, should surviving in Hell hold for you any appeal. For many, I’m certain it will not. I, for one, will not give up. I intend to be the one who sounds that final scream.

God help us

Dead by Dawn

Flag flying at half mast - Arlington National ...

Flag flying at half mast – Arlington National Cemetary (Photo credit: Supermac1961)

I expect by now you’ve heard the news out of Arizona about Moulder and its estimated seventeen-hundred dead. The entire town wiped off the map. News crews kept miles at bay due to the extreme toxicity from the chemical fire. The empty promises spouted by government investigators. The billowing plume of black smoke filmed from miles away, endlessly looped on the news. The politicians posturing about how they’ll bring those responsible to justice. You’ve seen and heard it all.

 
For me, the question arises: Do I believe there’s a cover-up in play? Of course, I do. Layer upon layer of cover-ups. Just maybe not the ones you think. Something bad happened in Moulder, but I don’t necessarily believe the government was behind it this time. Something happened, all right, something that had to be contained at any cost—for the sake of us all. I pray this is the end of it, though I have my doubts. I can’t help wondering about Mrs. Wibble. Where was she taken when arrested? Was she incinerated with the rest of the townsfolk? Or is she alive and in custody somewhere? These are the type of questions my nightmares are made of. I hate loose strings.

 
On a final note, I regret to report I’ve not heard from Sparkman since yesterday evening. I fear him to be a casualty of the eradication.

 
I’m going dark for a few days. Call it paranoia if you like. If anything happens in Dos Palos, it will just have to wait.

 
Until later…