Tamberlin's Account (7 page)
So I found the shoebox where I kept all my photos and chose my favorites of each person among them. Got my spare glasses, my supply of contacts, first aid supplies, my small external hard drive with a back up of everything on my computer, an LED lantern, took my cell phone and iPod chargers, wallet and a few personal things out of my purse and put on extra layers of clothes (including my Zombie Apocalypse t-shirt) and I grabbed a few other things I thought I should have on me at all times.
I considered my collection of books. It was hard to imagine leaving any of them behind. All but a few of my favorites I think I knew by heart. My Victorian Poetry collection is littered with post-its. My copy of
NIMH
is little more than ribbons anymore. There’s a lot of Michael Crichton. Stephen King. Phillip Pullman. Richard Matheson. Harold Schechter and Nathaniel Philbrick, thanks to Dee.
I don’t know how many people would agree with who I think are history’s most important authors. At the forefront of my list would be A.A. Milne, who wrote
Winnie-the-Pooh
. There are a lot of important truths and life/philosophical lessons in them that I think are ignored or don’t get the credit they deserve because they aren’t delivered to us in big words and as books for “adults”.
Plato and Lovecraft would be in my top ten too. I could go on forever if I went into it. I’m not going to.
But of the authors I adore, Cormac McCarthy would be the only one to contribute to the load of items to keep on me at all times. The others I considered most seriously were
NIMH
and
Pooh
, which I’m sure I know by heart.
I couldn’t leave
The Road
behind. Since the first time I read it, I found comfort in it. I expected to have to look for it there again.
I needed to see if I could even find a store that was open.
What would I do if they weren't, I thought. I didn't really think they would be open. But I wasn't ready to start breaking into places.
I took a hammer and a flat head screwdriver—one that always struck me as being particularly long.
I tried to psyche myself up. I nervously thought: I'd do whatever I had to.
So I locked up my house and got in my car and drove about four miles—with busy bodies following.
That was when I met "The Mob." Neighborhood Watch, I also call them. This cluster of dead that hang together, hunt together, wander together.
Turtle was one of them.
They're the ones that ate the woman that lived kitty corner from me.
I slowed down instinctively. It wasn't in my system to run people down. And I hadn't yet killed any of them. When my car shuddered and died I immediately regretted not stepping on the gas instead.
I only knew what was in the books and movies—that might come down to nothing. Wouldn't one be up shit creek if dragons showed up and we had to sort through all of fiction's ways to kill them? More closely related to zombies everywhere—what would I do against vampires or werewolves? I'd just have to take what I "know" and pray.
I giggled despite my fear when I imagined
Night of the Living Dead
being used as an instructional video in schools of the future. Living Dead 101:
“Pay attention to their mistakes.”
“Make note of the good use of unlikely tools for putting down the dead. And I don’t mean insults. Ha. Ha.”
It’s easy to imagine their tests.
They pressed on all sides of the car. I sat and thought a long time about the mess I was in before I decided how I was going to get out of it. In retrospect, stupidly, not even considering trying to start it again. I put my hand on my bag and really did pray.
I lowered the seats as flat as possible, so I had as much room as possible. I crawled over to the rear passenger side door. I put my hands to the glass and slapped on it.
Half of them moved to be nearer to me. That was probably enough. The ones that were stubborn stayed in the same places where they first fixed their eyes on me and tried to get in there. I had thought about crawling into the trunk and seeing if they'd lose interest. I'd thought about going through the roof. I hoped they were dumb and I could distract them like animals.
I reached forward and rolled down the passenger window—just enough for them to get their hands through. That got a few of the others interested. I guess they could smell me better.
As quick as I could, I pulled my keys and kicked open the driver's side door. It hit several of them, but many others had been at the door behind it.
I felt them grab me, but they didn't get good holds. Not until that bitch caught my hair—I broke her hand off at the wrist with one frantic swing of the hammer. This didn’t register until hours later. And I ran. I ran into the first yard I came to. The front door was locked. I ran down to the basement's walkout and saw several busy bodies inside.
I ran to the next yard and a zombie intercepted me. It grabbed an armful of my bag. I slipped out of it, but kept a hold on one of the arm straps. I put all my weight into swinging the bag and unbalancing him. I went down too, but he let go long enough for me to get the bag back. I held it by the top handle and crawled until I moved stooped and moved stooped until I was running. Evolution Chart of a Zombie Apocalypse Survivor?
In my peripheral vision I saw them coming.
My eyes were jumping all over and they kept finding more of them.
I ran past a van where people must have been taken off guard trying to leave. There was a zombie in the open back—eating a face.
The edge of the yard sloped downward and I spilled into reeds and water. I choked on a mouthful. I sucked in and, coughing and gagging, I pushed through the wall of waxy, squeaking, man tall plants. When the reeds opened up I was rib deep in the creek. The current wasn't strong, but I was tired and its push felt like a bulldozer.
It took me about 8 feet by the time I reached the reeds on the other side and pulled myself into them.
The yard on the other side went up somewhat steeply along the water, just like on the other side.
I ran to the house—a gray two-story with a three stall detached garage. I saw an SUV, I guess theirs, with its hood parted by an oak tree down the opposite side of the yard where the creek wrapped around the property.
I ran past two bags and a mostly eaten corpse when I came upon a man's body sprawled out on the sidewalk that surrounded the flower beds.
In one outstretched hand he clenched a set of keys.
I kicked the body. It didn't move. I bent to grab the keys and saw motion that was too fucking close for comfort. It was the Postman. That bulbous headed freak that, even dead, seemed like his lips were redder than they should be. So saggy—like the upside down hemorrhoid covered asshole of a chicken, but pumped up with collagen.
I'm not making this shit up.
I know what a chicken's asshole looks like—and I know what the Postman's mouth looks like—the rest are the missing details.
His eyes didn't look entirely blank, but I think I project something there. Remember, I think he's a creep. So nothing, not even the way he might have washed clothes would be free of seeming “off” to me. He struck me as a pervert, a creep, a weirdo, a Peeping Tom, panty sniffing sheep raper.
Since day one he made my skin crawl.
I don’t think people should be judged on how they look, but sometimes there's something to instinct too.
No arguing that he was a creep now.
He was coming up the driveway pretty fast.
I yanked the keys free.
The rest was a blur.
I remember getting inside, slamming the door, locking it and shaking it off for about an hour.
After, I hollered around, ready to deal with anything. I wanted anything inside to know I was there. Come and get it—get it over with.
When nothing happened I found a made bed in, what I assumed was a guest room because there were no personal affects, and flopped down on it, exhausted.
It was dark when I woke up to creaking floors—to be exact, the bedroom's creaking floor. It was carpet, so all other movement was muffled.
I heard congested groaning or moaning or whatever the fuck sounds these things make—they almost strike me as accordions or bag pipes. They're not breathing, there's just air in there, making horrible, hellish, ungodly sounds.
I saw a shape blocking out the lower half of the doorway, like a black igloo.
Like the Grinch, I slid on my belly off the bed, to my knees, to my hands, and then belly again as it grabbed the covers on the other side.
I heard a sound like a hundred shoes in a sack falling as the thing on hands and knees collapsed-
Jenga!
-onto the floor on the opposite side of the- thank God—heavy wooden queen sized bed. I could vaguely tell what it was doing. Of course, it was worming its way under, but it couldn't even get its shoulders under, if it wedged hard enough I thought it might lift the bed. It was pushing pretty hard.
I backed up—my heartbeat was deafening.
I kind of remember finding the lamp, but I do remember how it felt in my hand. I held it just under the bulb. At some point I tossed aside the shade. I yanked the cord free when I reached the end of
its
reach.
The busy body was trying to get out. I planted my right foot on the corner of the bed and gave it a hard enough shove that my grunt was high—wanting to be a scream.
The bed moved farther than I thought it would.
Then I was clubbing it. I clubbed it until its head was gone.
Then I took my flashlight and I scoured the house from top to bottom.
When I came back to the bedroom I realized why it hadn't attacked me when I arrived. It definitely heard me; it was just so big that it took that long to reach me.
I could see where it pulled itself up the bedroom door frame. It must have drug itself up here like an army man.
I tracked it to the basement where I found a busy body that was already dispatched. I blamed it for turning the body upstairs.
I dumped the one from the basement out of the upstairs window.
I had to get out onto the roof to shove it over the side.
I couldn't move the bedroom intruder. But I couldn't stand him being there- even if I barricaded the door. And I wasn't going out to try and find another place. I didn't want to go out ever again.
Until now.
I need my car.
Oct 26 7:05am
Made it to the edge of the yard. Couldn't make myself go farther.
1:49pm
Life expectance can't be based on age anymore, but on average survival time.
It has been 142 days.
Oct 27 11:13am
How long did you want to live? Would you want to live forever?
Do you?
What are
you
living for?
I've got me and my dog.
It could be worse.
I could be alone.
So hell yeah he's worth it.
I wouldn't want to live
forever
.
But I'm not going to die today.
Oct 28 5:33pm
Lucius Seneca said, “As long as you live, keep learning how to live.”
The busy body that tried to get me under the bed was too big for me to move, with anything but God's help.
I had to cut him up to move him out. I couldn’t live with him in there. What if suddenly two deaths wasn’t enough to kill them?
God help me. I’m not sorry. Ididwill
do what I have to, to live.
I'm not going to roll over and die.
When/if this is ever over, no one's going to say I'm ungrateful for even one breath.
Mr. Ages is beside me. The A/C is tossing his coat.
There's miles behind us and we're at an intersection. There's dead here—there is a lot of junk and a lot of discarded things people didn't plan on leaving or they would have left them in their homes. Things that mattered.
I'm idling on a broad plain of lanes that 145 days ago, cars would have looked like a herd of cattle pushing down their designated lanes. There are signs for going to Madison, Milwaukee and Chicago. Someone took the time to hang a foam poster board over part of the sign to Chicago that says: CHICAGO IS DEAD.
I stare at it for some time.
I already know that even small towns are out of the question. But it’s good to be warned when I’m getting close to someplace really big.
Everyway is as good as the next.
Mr. Ages thinks so too.
I consider myself living, not surviving.
I have seen several billboards that have been covered with signs for places for survivors to go. The signs call them “Disaster Relief Stations”. In this situation I wouldn’t relinquish control of my life to the government. The people running them are no different than the rest of us. Scared and willing to do anything to stay safe, with little or no consideration for other people. How many people completely abandoned their jobs to get back to their families as fast as they could? There will be people on power trips, there always are. And no higher authority to report to if someone abuses their power.
No thank you
.