Save a bullet. Feed a zombie.

Things came to a head shortly after my last post. Seems Derik let me live because he found me amusing. I suppose you could say he was saving me for a rainy day, for when he was bored and needed some entertainment. I might have complied had he not trod on my tail and made the worm turn.

I passed out before midnight on the 5th and woke with Felicia poking my temple with the barrel of a revolver. When she saw I was awake, she cocked the gun to make sure I knew she meant business. It worked. I nearly pissed myself.

“Get up,” she said. “They want you to watch.”

“Watch what?” I could hear what sounded like scuffling coming from another room.

“Your slutty girlfriend getting what she deserves.”

“She’s done nothing,” I said as she prodded me toward the kitchen. “Give me the gun. Please. You can’t let them hurt her.”

“Shut up. It’s the @^%#’s own fault.” Felicia had all the class and reasoning faculties of a Jerry Springer guest.

I will not go into the details of Shelly’s rape by Derik and Carl. Only that they waited for me arrive so I could watch it in its entirety. I will say this, however. It took both of them to manage. I don’t believe either one could have had his way with her had he been alone, unless Shelly had been bound or unconscious. Her struggles were relentless and not once did she look my way. She clenched her jaw throughout and never cried out.

When it was over, they showed their disdain for us by merely dismissing us. I took Shelly to my study while the others loudly celebrated their superiority.

If this were a story, I’d say things got worse over the days that followed and that things looked truly hopeless. But this is not fiction, and Derik and the others were not the caliber of fictional villains. The simple truth is we waited until they all passed out. Then we cut their throats. It was much easier than I’d thought possible. I took out Carl; Shelly, Derik. Felicia was supposed to be my responsibility, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill a sleeping woman. Shelly had no such compunction. We dumped their bodies out a second story window, and that was that.

It’s a pity the living dead only eat viable flesh. Seems like such a waste, now that I’ve have time to think about it. I regret not having gone along with Shelly’s desire to spare Derik’s and the others’ lives. She wished to hamstring the lot of them and then toss them outdoors. I feel bad thinking about how many hungry zombies we could have fed had I not squeamishly insisted on the slit throat course. I’m such a wuss.

Oh well. I am what I am. No sense crying over spilt blood, I suppose.

Okay, but this is my last drink. Really.

Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough. ~Mark Twain
.Halloween was tardy this year. The trick-or-treaters showed up on the afternoon of November 1st.  Dressed and armed like Mad Max fans at Comic Con, they came to my door bearing backpacks and saddlebags brimming with booze.

Mad Max

Mad Max (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Seems Shelly grew bored with my company and announced an open BYOB party at my home. They drove here on dirt bikes and seem to have gone out of their way to draw as many living dead to my door as they possibly could. Whereas I used to be able to step outdoors in relative safety when the urge hit me, there will be no opening of the door again without facing a major rotter fest.

The smell indoors is hellacious. Not just from scores of living dead outside, but from the sweat, vomit, and stale booze inside. Like I said, Shelly invited them here for a party, and party we did.

My world has again been tipped on its ear. Five people now occupy a haven designed for one. Shelly swears she doesn’t know these people. Says she told a friend over the phone how much she missed wild parties. Her friend lives too far away from here to chance a visit, but apparently started the ball rolling, which ended up with Derik, Carl, and Felicia pounding on my door.

These three aren’t exactly what I’d call bad, but they’re not what I’d call conducive to my survival, either. Let’s just say they’re members in good standing of the eat-drink-and-be-merry-because-tomorrow-we-die club. The party has gone on since Thursday night, and I for one am done. I’ve had nothing to drink since last night and have a hangover to rival the apocalypse. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely type. Just thought I’d post this so you’d know I was still kicking.

Martin Grist

Who Goes There?

electricity

electricity (Photo credit: Terry Freedman)

 

I was planning on writing about the death of Halloween. How holidays such as Christmas and Easter will survive, while those like Halloween are doomed to obscurity. Who wants to be scared these days? I dare say you’re not sitting on your front porch with a bowl of candy for what may come calling this eve.

That’s what I planned to write about before the miracle that took place on the east coast today. I’m talking, of course, about the power that was restored to the blackout areas. This is good news of course, but I, like many others, want to know how this was accomplished and by whom.

I know the sentiment on the web credits this to an act of God. That’s fine by me. With the absence of facts, it makes as much sense as anything else I can think of. However, there’s more to the story than what happened in New England. As I’ve mentioned before, how do any of us still have electricity, not to mention water and gas, as well as periods of internet and phone service. I attributed this blessing to the military at first, but that explanation is becoming more implausible with each passing day.

The CDC estimated one out of five hundred people were immune to the stage two plague. Out of six billion people, that would leave about twelve million humans. That’s twelve million against six billion living dead. Out of the twelve, how many survived the stage three zombie onslaught? A third? A quarter? Even if half of us have survived this long, the number is staggeringly low, and I can’t imagine the military has not suffered a similar reduction. With such diminished numbers, I simply don’t see how they could maintain civilian utilities and services across the nation––even without the zombie menace to hinder them.

So today’s big question is, if not the military, who is looking after us and why?

Mother Nature’s a Mother

Tropical Cyclone Bingiza

Tropical Cyclone Bingiza (Photo credit: NASA Goddard Photo and Video)

I’ve been so preoccupied with the living dead prowling outside my doors that I’d completely forgotten about good ol’ Mother Nature. She came back into focus yesterday with the storm news from the upper east coast. The internet is on overload. The pictures I’m seeing are mind boggling. It looks to me like a hurricane. Do they have hurricanes in New England?

Reports are coming in about power outages in several storm states. I fear that once power is lost, it will be lost for good. After all, who’s going to bring it back on line? For those without power, I pray it’s a mild winter.

This brings me to my own regional vulnerability. It’s been five years to the month since wildfires ravaged southern California. If not for the firefighters, I’d have lost my home. What will be the result with no one to fight the fires? You’ve certainly heard the reports that Fresno, Bakersfield, and Oxnard are burning.  I feel like I’m sitting on a time bomb. How long do I have before my home goes up in flames?

Of course, fire is also a fool proof means of purging the living dead. May this eastern storm have a similar effect.

Wildfires

Wildfires (Photo credit: agrilifetoday)

Spilt Milk Syndrome

English: Managing emotions - Identifying feelings

English: Managing emotions – Identifying feelings (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I witnessed something yesterday that moved me like nothing else I’ve yet experienced. It literally brought me to my knees.

Perhaps you’ve noticed the lack of emotion on my part since the apocalypse began. I certainly have. Not that it bothered me. I thought I was merely facing hard times with hard logic. After all, why dwell on what you can’t change? What’s the point in crying over spilt milk? No need to be human. Sever your emotions. Live like one of the living dead––just don’t eat anyone. Let’s call it the spilt milk syndrome. I know I’m boring you with all this talk about emotions so let me tell you what happened before you turn the channel.

Yesterday morning, Shelly and I set out to forage for cigarettes and other basic essentials. Our destination was a small market/liquor store a mile and a half away. Shelly insisted she carry the 9mm which left me with the machete––I’d broken my shotgun and left it behind during my botched rescue attempt. And no, I didn’t let Shelly finagle the pistol from me. The truth is I’m just not a very good shot, and I can’t waste ammunition with a machete.

Our plan was to enter the store, clear out any rotters loitering about, then loot and vamoose. We made it there with only one incident. A dead teenager began to follow us down the road. Although she wore the pallor of death, she was in much better shape than most of her kind. She had a bite mark on her upper arm and her bloody hands told the tale of her suicide. Poor kid, she must have believed she’d truly die if she took her own life. Although we could easily outpace her, Shelly insisted I dispose of the girl. She was right, of course. Once a rotter catches the scent, they’re relentless. Nevertheless, there was enough left of the young girl that her decapitation shook me up a lot more than you’d think. Perhaps that’s what helped pry open the door to my emotions.

We came into sight of the store. Rotters were scattered about, sprawled over the street, twitching and crawling, broken, mangled, crushed. Further down the street, a throng of dead swarmed over and feasted on something large, which I at first took to be a horse or cow. Whatever it was had drawn every rotter in sight, leaving us free and clear to accomplish our mission. I’m sure I would have been fine if I hadn’t suddenly realized that the thing in the road was not common livestock, but an honest-to-God rhinoceros.

The rhino jerked and tossed off several rotters who picked themselves up and resumed with their repast. The creature was still alive, though beyond any hope. It seemed absurd to me that such an extraordinary and powerful animal should die in such a manner. Without warning, I envisioned mankind as that dying beast, and everything I’d bottled up inside me over the last few weeks poured out. If Shelly hadn’t pistol whipped some sense into me, I’d probably have drawn the entire pack of living dead down on us.

For the rest of the day and far into the night, I continued to mourn the people I’ve lost and the world that’s crumbling around us. Shelly, I should say, got her smokes and joined me in my grief when we returned home. I’ll also mention how much my jaw hurts from where she hit me with the gun. I’ll give her this. Whatever she does, it’s never half-assed.

Note: As much as I could really go for a genuine miracle about now, the rhinoceros most likely walked here from the San Diego Wild Animal Park, which is located about thirty miles away.