Zomblog 05: Snoe's War (17 page)

I took five of my group with me and we ventured in to Irony…what remains of it at least. There are still bodies littering the street as I sit in the bungalow that I was given. I have no idea where everybody else is and word about their fate is impossible to uncover.

Right now there are a lot of people helping the injured or dying. Everybody who has been injured is automatically being placed in quarantine since it cannot be confirmed that they are not in some way carrying the zombie virus.

A note about that…

There was a big surprise apparently when this zombie thing began. Some folks proved immune to the bite. However, it was discovered that if you were immune and bitten, you still turned after you died. Also, like most things that can be spread by bodily fluids, you could get the virus if you were exposed to zombie-ick. (That is what folks started calling the dark, tar-like goo that is in zombies.) Because nobody can be certain if they didn’t get a little splatter at some point, anybody on a “death watch” is placed in quarantine.

I would love to see Selina or even William. It would be nice to know that a few familiar faces made it through. Looking at all the clean-up and the number of bodies in the streets, it seems like more horrible news is just a bad night’s sleep away.

Friday April 2
^nd

Selina is alive and well!

I have to temper my excitement because so many people are walking around in a haze of sadness. It would seem that there were a lot of people getting their first taste of killing in those three short days of fighting. (It is being called the Three Day War just so you know.) While you can live most of your life and only kill a zombie or two, it is unlikely that you can go forever without committing that act. However, killing a living human being is something entirely different.

So, here is the latest news…no, that was NOT Major Carson that I encountered. However, it is suspected that he sent that task force.

Word is that Major Carson has made a run to the south and is regrouping and recruiting. Supposedly, he has a force of three hundred soldiers under his command. Most likely he will be hitting tribal groups and “recruiting” more to serve under his banner. He was last seen heading in the general direction of the Boise Wastelands. That area is a known haven for just the sorts of people I mentioned earlier—the kind who like to carve swastikas into their skin as a symbol of something that I guess I just don’t understand.

I do wonder how this Major Carson will fare with these people…I know from all the reports I have heard that they only “accept” people who are Caucasian. So unless Major Carson has done some racial pairing down of his regiment, I doubt they are “all white.”

Tomorrow there is supposed to be some sort of meeting involving everybody here in Irony. I already sent word for Betty and the others to return early this morning and they should be here any minute now.

Now, back to Selina, I had to get information from her since it seems that she was smack dab in the middle of the fighting. She is awful at providing details, and I had to basically coax everything out of her, but this is what I did eventually learn:

When the executions of the members of The Genesis Brotherhood began and opened the floodgates of war, it seems that Dominique had a few tricks up her sleeve in preparation for a rebellion. Several key buildings were rigged with incendiary devices. That explained all the fires. However, I guess her paranoia did not help those on her side as she apparently did not divulge the locations of all these devices. Some of them took out loyalists to her cause.

Also, it seems that The Genesis Brotherhood had a dozen suicide bombers that were prepared for just such an event. So right after I left, it seems that things got very chaotic in a hurry. With fires burning everywhere, the conundrum for the leaders (like William) was about how much of their resources to devote to battling fires versus battling the enemy. To make matters worse, I guess there was some sort of secret dungeon operated by Dominique’s people. It was packed with a few hundred zombies which they unleashed on the city the first night. And since they knew it was coming, all her people buttoned up tight leaving the citizen army of Irony to fight them.

With all of the insanity and the chaos, it will be several days before an actual accounting of the lives lost can be made official. Riders have been sent out in all directions to try and bring home those who simply ran out of fear. According to Selina, lots of people literally dropped everything and bolted when the fighting began.

The ones who stayed to fight went on house-to-house searches after the main battle was over. And I guess it was easy to pluck any of the members of The Genesis Brotherhood that tried to hide. They all have a symbol etched on their forearm that gave them away.

As for the few supporters of Dominique’s that were within Irony, they apparently fought to the last man (and woman) in a terrible and bloody battle. I think they will actually be remembered in such a way that will probably grow over time into even more than it was despite their deaths and the final outcome. People are openly making quite a deal about them; using words like “valiant” and “brave” to describe those fifty or so soldiers. Perhaps somebody will right their story someday.

Sunday, April 3
^rd

Stations have been set up in a dozen locations and everybody is being required to be registered. On the good side, there have been some tearful reunions as people read the lists that are posted hourly with the names of those who are alive.

Also, one of the barracks buildings has been converted to a “viewing morgue” for people to try and identify friends and family who did not survive. In addition, the riders who went out to round people up have brought back the heads of a few recently turned undead. Those were the toughest. That is how a few people had to discover their loved ones had perished. That is how we identified William Alexander.

A lot of small speeches were given. Most had to do with strength, unity, and the ability to rebuild. One was basically an announcement that all citizens who had been conscripted into the NAA would be free to leave, but that those who would stay would be compensated and their communities notified. Also, it was promised that any who did stay would be scheduled a two week leave period to visit home before returning to duty.

The word has spread that Major Carson is active and must be stopped. I have been asked to sign on to the administration and act as a diplomat. For some reason, they think that I will be able to influence more people to join the cause.

I sat down with Betty and Selina this afternoon and they both think that I should do it. I think that they are over-estimating what I bring to the table. Still, in two months, I will be on a train that will return me to Corridor 26. I told them that if I went there and had any success, then perhaps it would be worth considering.

In the meantime, I have signed on to a work detail. We are rebuilding Irony. I do believe that this place is beautiful…and it is a marvel to look at with all of its skyways and bridges; with all of the houses built into these trees.

I did do one thing on my own, and I have written it here in case something happens to me. I know that the first place anybody will look is in this silly book.

I sent five of the members of that fifty person unit that I had been given command of on Overlook Hill (I guess it had an actual name) to Oklahoma Confederated Territory and five more to Timberline City up on Mount Hood. I hope the letters reach their intended destinations.

Something tells me that it is going to be a long, hot summer.

Keep going for a sneak peek at the original short,

“That Ghoul Ava:

Her First Adventures”

PLUS!!!

“That Ghoul Ava & The Queen of the Zombies”

That Ghoul Ava

It’s Sunday. I hate Sundays. If cornered, I’d say I hate Tuesdays, too. They’re just such Nothing days. Oh…and it’s snowing; but I love the snow, so it makes today a bit of a wash.

Wait! I’m being so rude. My name is Ava Birch.  It’s pronounced Ay-va.  I’m not some shiny, white robot in a Disney flick in love with a trash compactor, so do not call me Eee-va.  Oh yeah, and I’m a ghoul.

Now before you get all weirded out, I’m not a zombie and I’m not a deranged vampire. I don’t lie in wait for innocent men, women, and children and feast on them. I eat the already dead. And no, I don’t hang out in graveyards and dine on those about to be buried. Do you know what sorts of things they pump into dead bodies? Then I suggest you read
Behind the Formaldehyde Curtain
by Jessica Mitford.

Ewwwwww!

Ghouls, for those of you in utter confusion or sucked into the strange alternate realities that besmirch a ghoul’s good name, eat the dead. We aren’t contagious. We can’t bite or scratch you and turn you—a good thing for those who have found themselves in my bed—into one of us.  (Poor, unwitting necros.)  From what I understand—I’ve only met one other ghoul and he wasn’t very helpful—our condition is genetic. Then, we have to die in such a way that enough remains to come back.

I’m sure there are a thousand things I could tell you, but I’m equally sure that, if it’s important, it will come up over the course of events. What you do need to know is that I’m no Betsy Sinclair or Amanda Feral!  I’m pretty sure my love of blue eye shadow, 80s fashion sense, and adoration of Poison—the group, not the substance—would prevent me from ever being confused with the likes of
them
.

Did I just mention Poison? I’ve got to admit, if Brett Michaels ever succumbs to his illness, I may have to rethink my dietary rules. If I could manage to sneak his cold, blue body from whatever morgue he ended up in? Mmmmmm…Brett Michaels.

I had a thing for C.C. DeVille, but he got all clean and sober. That skinny little bastard will probably live to be ninety. That’s a bit too stringy for me.

Anyways, I’ve digressed enough. Back to me. How did it all start? And what were those first few weeks like? Chances are, if you’re reading this, you know tons about zombies, vampires, and maybe werewolves. Unless of course, your exposure to the undead consists of that silly
Twilight
crap…yuck! Well, I’m here to tell you that the undead aren’t all sexy twenty-somethings or pretty boys with six-pack abs.

I was thirty-two when I went through The Change. It was 1999, and I was not—in fact—partying like the song suggests.  That year was terrible. My husband left me for a girl he was having a not-so-subtle affair with from his office. I can’t be too mad; I’d had a fling of my own with a bartender at the restaurant where I was a waitress. Still…I wasn’t gonna run away with him or anything. It was casual flirting that lead to sitting in a car after work passing a bottle and a joint back and forth. One thing led to another, and pretty soon we were doing the ‘back seat mambo’ while
Every Rose Has Its Thorn
played on the car stereo.

The autopsy on my marriage went something like this: we were married for six years; stopped having regular sex after two; and were down to birthday and anniversary sex after four. Last I heard, Edgar was still married to that sl—.  Excuse me, to that sweet girl. They even had twin girls. Good for him…them.

The worst part about the divorce was that I was a waitress.
He
was/is a rising executive in an advertising firm. I ended up in a rundown apartment complex in Southeast Portland.
He
has a gorgeous colonial in Tualatin. I didn’t ask for alimony, and since we didn’t have any children…I was pretty much back to square one.

I never cared much for school. I met Edgar at a party thrown by twice-removed mutual friends. Honestly, I wasn’t gold-digger. We met. We hit it off. The freaky sex was fun. Marriage just sorta happened. I wish it was more exciting than that, but real life seldom is.

After we split, I tried to reinvent myself about a dozen times. Somehow, I always ended up waitressing in places with party atmosphere bars, going home—or at least to the parking lot—with too many co-workers or big tippers, and waking up with that gnawing sense of self-loathing.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a used car. Sure, my Elvira-length, jet-black hair, gray eyes, and, oh yeah, thirty-eight DDs looked good. The time hadn’t run out yet on my hourglass figure, but I could see a few cracks here and there. Crows were definitely perching on the edges of my eyes, and my once-flat belly was developing a bit of a speed bump. Hey! I did say I was thirty-two.

One morning I just fell off my mental ledge. I’d woke to a phone call from my most recent boyfriend who decided that he needed to “at least try and give an honest go” at being a good husband to his wife. That meant those plans we’d made for my thirty-third birthday the next week were probably scratched.  Somehow, I ended up standing in front of my medicine cabinet.  A moment later, all my prescription bottles were empty…along with the half a bottle of white zin I had left over from the previous day’s lunch.

Now, I don’t know all the mojo and hocus pocus that went on. What I do know is that I woke up two days later on my bathroom floor. I admit I sat there wanting to cry, but nothing happened. That should’ve been my first clue. I mean, it was like my brain was telling me I was sad, but the voice in my head trying to pass on that message was two doors down and had a rag stuffed in its mouth.

When I stood up and looked in the mirror, I did one of those “Eek! I saw a mouse!” squeals. My eyes were (are) black. I don’t just mean the pretty part. I had two shiny black orbs staring back at me. Then I did something a bit silly…I blinked a few times like that might help.

After I got over trying to fake out my reflection by jumping out from, and back in front of the mirror a dozen or so times, I huffed a stand of hair out of my face and ventured into my apartment. That was when I got surprise number two: it was the middle of the night. My place was shrouded in darkness. Of course that had me dashing back into the bathroom. Nope, the light was definitely out. I could see in the dark! Weird. Right?