Operation: Turkey: 11/22/12 Thanksgiving Day

11/21/12

Wednesday morning, we arrived back where we’d heard the turkey. Shelly had the bright idea that I should make turkey sounds in the hope it would lure the bird to us. I protested

English: Saying grace before carving the turke...

English: Saying grace before carving the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner in the home of Earle Landis in Neffsville, Pennsylvania (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

vehemently until she kicked me in the shin and threatened to aim higher with her next shot. I grasped the logic of her argument, and we continued wandering around the area as I gobble-gobbled like an idiot.

Shelly told me to keep my ears peeled and my eyes on the lookout for clues. She didn’t say what clues she hoped to find—an arrow scratched in the dirt pointing to the picture of a turkey, I suppose. With no real plan, we randomly widened our search to wherever we could walk unhindered by the live oak, sagebrush, and wild buckwheat that grows around here like rust on iron.

My throat had grown horse by the time we smelled trouble. Quite literally, we smelled rotter stench wafting in the air, my turkey calls having undoubtedly alerted them to our presence.

We realized our options for flight were severely limited by the dense brush that nearly surrounded us, and we took the only route that led away from the smell. The narrow clearing took us uphill. We had to backtrack several times when, upon choosing a wrong fork, we found ourselves at a dead end.

Progress was slow, and I was getting tired. The only reason we were fleeing was because we didn’t know how many had caught our scent. So far, I’d managed to spot two through the tall brush, a number we could easily manage. We came to an oak tree with branches low enough for me to scale. I didn’t have to climb very high to see the trouble we were in. Rotters were advancing on us from every direction. Just beyond the rise a couple hundred yards off, a tile roof poked up. The brush thinned out somewhat in that direction. It seemed our best bet.

I dispatched two rotters in our path with the machete, and we slid down an embankment to a cement driveway that extended past the side of the house. We found the front door locked, and I wasted precious time fruitlessly trying to kick it in.

A rotter tumbled down the embankment, and landed with a sickening crunch on the driveway. A broken bone had torn through her thigh, and she hobbled toward us with gnashing teeth and grasping arms. Shelly smashed a large ceramic pot containing a dead geranium down on the rotter’s head and laid her out flat. I finished her off with the machete, and we ran to the back of the house.

The back yard consisted of an expansive patio with an empty swimming pool in the center and a wrought iron fence along the back and far side of the house where the hillside sloped steeply away. A sliding glass door offered a way inside the house. I found it locked and rattled the handle and glass in frustration. I would have preferred to close the door behind me once I got inside, but beggars can’t be choosers. I threw a lawn chair at the glass.  It bounced harmlessly off.

Several dead rounded the corner of the house and made straight for us. I picked the chair up, determined to break into the house. I struck the glass one blow and froze. From within the house, rotters emerged from unseen rooms and pressed upon the glass door. Luckily, I’d not managed to break the glass.

Shelly shot two rotters in the head at point blank. It was too late to worry about drawing attention with the noise. I looked around. What with the embankment and the drop-off, Shelly and I were effectively cornered.

“Try to find a way onto the roof.” It seemed our only hope.

“If we had time, we could pile furniture up and climb.” Shelly sounded as scared as I felt.

Something brown streaked from the top of the embankment and vanished from sight into the pool. Three rotters followed and fell from the top of the embankment. Two landed on their heads and did not move from where they hit the cement. The third was messed up pretty bad and crawled our way by the movement off one leg.

“Something’s in the pool. Check it out while I put this one out of its misery.” I ran to the rotter as Shelly inched toward the pool, leaning forward to glimpse what was there. It took but a moment to carry out my chore, and I turned in time to see Shelly jump back and scream as the brown thing lept out of the pool and shoot past her.

The words erupted from Shelly and me simultaneously. “It’s the #%$@ing turkey.”

The turkey ran to the far end of the house and disappeared. We raced after it and found a door, ajar and concealed behind a wall of wisteria. We ducked inside, found a light switch, and were relieved to find ourselves in a garage, unoccupied but for the turkey and a late model Camaro. We locked ourselves inside and were safe for the time being.

Inside the garage was another door that led into the house. After a search of the car failed to turn up a key, I was designated the group’s key finder.  Luckily, the door to the house was unlocked and I was able to slip quietly inside. I could hear the rotters rustling about the room with the sliding glass door, and I literally tip-toed into the kitchen. Luck was with me, and I found the keys on the counter.

I snatched them up and turned to make my exit. Had I paid more attention to my nose, I probably would have smelled the rotter that had entered the kitchen before I heard it groan. I hadn’t enough room to swing the machete, and hurled myself over a kitchen island, scattering food crusted dishes and pans clashing and clattering across the floor.

I made it into the garage and slammed the door closed behind me. Shelly sat in the driver’s seat with door open. I tossed her the keys. “I guess you’re driving.” I scrambled into the passenger seat, as the Camaro roared to life. Shelly pressed the remote control device clipped to the visor, and the garage door rolled open on its tracks.

We arrived home in short order. Shelly popped open the trunk and stuffed the turkey under her arm.  She’d zip tied the bird’s feet together and had no difficulty making it cooperate. I hooked the horn for several seconds while Shelly took cover behind a large pepper tree. The noise created enough distraction for us to climb to the roof and reenter the house.

That’s enough adventure to last me for a good long time. Funny thing how the big hunters were saved by the very turkey they meant to eat. There’s no telling if we’d have found the garage door on our own before overrun by rotters.

In conclusion, this promises to be a most wonderful Thanksgiving, if the smell coming from the kitchen is any indication. I truly never expected to taste turkey ever again.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Mission accomplished.

Operation: Turkey–11/20/12

We made our way down to the creek by following the old horse tails that wind through the hills. We’ve had little rain this year and the water is only ankle deep for the most part. Shelly searched the sandy shore for bird tracks and gave me a withering look when I laughed at her. To her credit, she did find some tracks, though they were those of some mammal and not a bird. The tracks of a coyote, dog, or raccoon I reckon they were by gum, by cracky.

Daniel Boone Painting

Daniel Boone Painting (Photo credit: amslerPIX)

To my discomfort, there were also some odd scuff-like marks that looked to have been left by a rotter. Then again, the tracks could have been left by some small animal dragging its prey over the sand. I’ll be the first to admit I’m no Daniel Boone. I’ll also admit I never believed there was a turkey running around these parts, but there is. I heard one with my own ears towards sunset last night. Even I know what a turkey sounds like.

We saw no sense in trying to hunt the bird in the dark and called it a day. We made our way to a house we’d checked out earlier and deemed safe for the night. Safe or not, we slept in an upstairs room and barricaded the door for good measure.

It’s now the morning of the twentieth and we’re getting ready to bag us a turkey. Now that I know one exists, I’m actually raring to go. Our only problem: how do we finish the job. All we have are a couple 9mm handguns, and neither of us are expert marksmen. We can probably get away with a shot or two without attracting a horde of living dead down on us, but to just start blasting away is out of the question. I guess we’ll play it by ear.

The internet’s not presently working. I’ll post this when I get the chance.

Operation: Turkey–11/19/12

PAINTER WORKING ON CHAIN LINK FENCE - NARA - 5...

PAINTER WORKING ON CHAIN LINK FENCE – NARA – 549962 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Shelly wouldn’t discuss Operation Turkey until we awoke this morning. We had breakfast––mostly coffee––and I stated my objections to which she responded like a mother dismissing a monster under a child’s bed.

Shelly decided to travel light, taking only our weapons and a few water bottles. The deserted houses scattered about the countryside were to provide us with whatever food and shelter we might need. It all seemed like a lot of bother to me. The houses are some of the worse places imaginable. So many people boarded up their widows and died of the plague only to arise as rotters trapped inside their own homes.

Anyhow, our first order of business was to get out of the house in one piece. Courtesy of Derik, we have about a dozen rotters residing on the property who perked up as soon as we opened the upstairs window. We needed to not only get away in one piece, but we needed to get far enough ahead of any pursuit so our scent couldn’t be followed.

Our plan was simple. Taking a low tech approach, we tied rope and sheets together for our departure. Shelly manned the rope while I skirted the edge of roof, hollering and waving at our unwanted quests, luring them to me. There’s an L shaped section of chain link fence buttressed against a corner of the house. One of my many unfinished home improvement projects, the fence is wide open at one end but was adequate for our purposes.

I started drawing attention to myself while standing above the fence. From there, I made my way around the house until every rotter in sight wanted a piece of me. By the time I got back to where I’d begun, Shelly had lowered the rope to the ground and the rotters pressed against the closed section of fence as we descended. They could have been on us in seconds if they’d thought to walk back to the opening and around.

The plan would have worked out like a dream, if not for my skill as a fence builder. What I hadn’t considered was the pressure of a dozen adult bodies pushing against the meager depth to which I’d planted the fence poles. I see now I should have dug the holes deeper and used more cement. Live and learn. As you’ve guessed, we were barely on our way before the first fence pole ripped from the ground and the chase was on. We ran like hell until we(I) couldn’t run any more. I can only hope we pulled the rotters far enough away from my home that they’ll get lost and not return.

An internet window just opened and I want to get this posted before it closes. I’ll send more if I get a chance.

Operation: Turkey. Over and out.

Death of a turkey

Male wild turkey in Brookline, Massachusetts, ...

Male wild turkey in Brookline, Massachusetts, United States of America. He frequents the area on Beacon Street between Washington Square and Cleveland Circle. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love Shelly. Yes, it’s true. She’s as fun as one of those old sitcom heroines, always ready with a new adventure that’s sure to get her in deep doo-doo. I’m being harsh. Shelly’s not all that funny, but that’s okay because I’m not with her for the laughs. Unlike those cit-com husbands, I’ll do what Shelly wants, if it will buy her time from her depression.

So here’s the low-down. Thanksgiving is only a few days away. For my friends living outside the USA who don’t know about our American Thanksgiving holiday, it’s one of our more nationalistic and less alcoholic driven celebrations. (Despite what you might think of Americans, ugly is primarily what we become when you try to deny us our freedom or booze)

To move on, Thanksgiving is basically a celebration of the birth of capitalism in the New World, although it’s politically incorrect to speak of this these days.

Here’s the History of Thanksgiving in a nutshell: Some early English settlers, known as the Pilgrims, were essentially amazingly daring socialist hippies who made the new world their home in 1620. These people should not be confused with the Puritans. The difference between the two groups is immense. The Pilgrims were driven by spirit; the Puritans, by religion.

The Pilgrims, finding that their communal system produced less than was necessary to support the community, made an extraordinary transition and gave up socialism in favor of capitalism. Due to that decision, the community survived. They not only survived, they thrived. In celebration of their new found bounty, they threw a feast which came to be known as Thanksgiving.

Central to the feast is a cooked turkey. For those who don’t know, a turkey is a large bird that tastes wonderful when it’s baked with bread crumbs crammed up its ass.

So where am I going with this post? Here goes. In a couple days, Thanksgiving day will be on us. Do I care? Absolutely not. Does it matter what I think? Absolutely not. So who does matter? Shelly.

Shelly wants a fresh turkey for Thanksgiving diner. Says she’s going to leave tomorrow morning and will return by Thanksgiving day with a turkey, cook it and serve it or die trying.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’ll not be letting her go on her wild turkey chase by herself. I’ll take my cell phone. In case I find a spare moment, I’ll keep you informed as to our progress. Don’t count on it though. If I know Shelly, she’ll probably have me build her a Taj Mahal with any free time I might find.

I have to admit I feel like an idiot. I’m going to die for a stupid turkey. Heck, I’ve never seen a wild turkey around here in my entire life. I’m a loon for going along with this. I really truly don’t expect to return home this time. I mean it. I’m only doing this because I love Shelly. I guess I’ll do anything for her.

God save me.

On a Lighter Note

Life has been growing darker by the day for both Shelly and me. To snap myself out of my funk, I was going through some video files I’d archived during better times. It was there I came across a You Tube video I’d saved. I played it for Shelly and it seemed to raise our spirits somewhat.

At first, she found it depressing and refused to watch. She was disturbed by the thought that most of the people in the film are now dead. I finally got her to view it by reminding her that movie classics like her favorite, Gone With The Wind, were filled with dead actors by the time she first watched them. It’s the nature of art to outlive its creator.

This video was a hit before the world came to an end. This is the last in a series of three films I know of. I wonder where the hell Matt is these days. I’d like to believe he’s out there still, this time getting zombies from around the world to dance. Now that would be a video.

That’s the signpost up ahead––your next stop…

I was wrong. Killing those people wasn’t as simple as I thought. The ease with which I took Carl’s life weighs heavy on mind. I’ve barely slept since. Despite it being a matter of them or us, I lie awake nights wondering if there hadn’t been another way to

Plan 9 from Outer Space (1958)

Plan 9 from Outer Space (1958) (Photo credit: twm1340)

resolve the conflict, one that didn’t end in their deaths. So far, I’ve come up with nothing. Shelly’s slept less than I, though I imagine her rape has more to do with that than the fate of Derik and the others. We’ve barely spoken and have neither shared meals together nor a bed. Maybe she blames me for what happened. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should have tried to take the gun away from Felicia. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I need to deal with what is.

Speaking of which, something strange took place here a few nights ago. Out of guilt and morbid curiosity, I’ve checked on the bodies once every day since I dumped them outdoors. As expected, the living dead ignored the dead flesh and left the bodies alone. The coyotes, feral dogs, and cats know better than to scavenge near a cluster of zombies like we have here and stayed clear. Aside from the inevitable insects, the crows and hawks alone had the nerve to pluck what they could when the coast was clear. Everything was normal weird, up until a few nights ago.

Back on the 9th of this month, about an hour after sunset, every electrical device in the house went dark, batteries included. At the same time, a hum vibrated through the house and everything inside. Light shined in through cracks in the window shutters. I wish I’d run upstairs and looked out the window, but I didn’t. The light and the humming lasted between two and three minutes before abruptly ending. The electricity did not come back on.

In the morning, I discovered the bodies were gone. The simplest explanation consists of a black helicopter hovering over my home while men in black collected the bodies of Derik, Carl, and Felicia for God knows what purpose. You can entertain other explanations by inserting your own alternatives to the bold words. E.g. reindeer sleigh, Santa Clause, etc..

I tried to charge the batteries with a solar charger without success. I got a taste of how things will be when the power finally does fail. I’m not looking forward to that day.

Last night, about the same hour as before, the humming and the outdoor light returned for a short time. When it ended, our power was restored, right down to the batteries being charged as they’d been before.

This is reminiscent of the blackout on the east coast, and I’m interested to know if anyone else has experienced something similar. Of course, you’re aware of the rash of reports about strange lights in the night skies lately. With air traffic no longer in existence, any lights moving about in the sky should be considered strange these days. I’m guessing there’s a link between these lights and what happened to me. Guessing being the key word. I’m also guessing we’ve not yet seen the full extent of the apocalypse, not by a long shot.

Things are getting weird, even by my standards. I’m beginning to wonder if God retired and left Ed Wood in charge.

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.