Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (38 page)

The dead have been a bit thick. We’ve had to duck, dodge, and double-back all day. I can’t imagine what happened here. There are so many bodies. And even worse, partial bodies. If forced to guess, I would say that whomever was in charge of this fight tried to use large scale weaponry here. The type that makes a big bang. Only, you can actually separate a zombie’s head from its body and that head will still be active; sorta like a rattlesnake. Just because you lop the head off doesn’t mean the venom in its fangs won’t getcha.

We’ve run across a lot of upper-bodies—and even just the heads—of zombies today. It is like walking through a minefield. It almost cost us Jenifer.

Coach and Jonathan were leading. We had left the inte
rstate behind just after a lunch of rice, beans, and canned apricots. (The interstate seems to become exponentially more congested on both sides the closer we get to downtown.) Anyways, we had to climb this hill and scale a fence which put us at the terminal end of a dead-end street. We decided that backyards were our best route. Staying on the street was asking for attention. The hard part was climbing fence after fence of varying types.  Every time we crossed a yard, we had to keep an eye on the house. If a zombie was inside and saw you, it would start pounding on the window, which will just about scare the piss out of you—literally—when one catches you by surprise and breaks the silence with an open-handed slap on glass. Once we crossed the yard, we’d have to scout the next one. Then Jonathan would lift Coach over. Jenifer and I took turns being next. Jonathan always came over last. I’ll tell ya something, after a few hours of that, you are tired and sore.

We started seeing heavily damaged or burned houses around 40
th
Avenue. Keep in mind that all the yards are overgrown; knee-to-thigh-high in some places. We were crossing one, actually crouching low because most of the house was gone and we could easily see the street and front yard through the sections of burned out and missing walls. There was a stretch of four yards that had no real fencing left, so it was a lot of open area. We were so busy watching for anything that might wander past out front and see us that we missed one.

It was only the head and a section of the torso that i
ncluded the right arm. It was burned beyond the ability to identify it as male or female. Both its eyes had burst and were part of the thick, dried, scaly coating on its face. There wasn’t enough “body” remaining for it to even have any ribs left.

The hand snagged Jenifer’s foot, tripping her. She shrieked as she fell. I heard moans in instant response. Coach started growling, but just that fast, they were coming from ev
erywhere. Fortunately, Jenifer was wearing steel-toed leather boots. This thing bit down on the top of her foot with its jagged, broken teeth, but it did little more than put a few divots in the black surface. With her free foot, she kicked the thing in the forehead a few times to knock it loose.

I brought my spear up and drove it through the eye soc
ket of one of the first ghouls to emerge from the burnt wreckage of the house. I could see one of those bastards appearing to literally come out of the woodwork. I did have a moment to appreciate how Coach and Jonathan work as a team. The dog darts in snarling and snapping his jaws, which never failed to get the intended target to bend down and reach for the pesky pooch. That is when Jonathan brings the Wedge-o-matic (what
he
calls it by the way) down hard into the back of the zombie’s head. This usually drops whatever is struck. Sometimes a second or third swing is needed. Jonathan says that the back of the skull is actually much easier to break than the front. Who knew?

Jenifer had dispatched her abomination; she and I were making for the fence when the first explosion came. A black pi
llar of smoke rose—about three blocks away—from back the way we’d come. The good news was that most of those things headed in the direction of the new sound. The bad news is that some unknown brand of nutjob was close by and blowing things up.

We could see a mostly intact home one yard over and one back through the overgrown yard we were climbing the fence to get to.  I decided to head for it. Two more expl
osions rocked the ground a bit. I could hear some of the burned and less stable remnants of houses crumble, along with a chorus of moans from every direction. Whoever this mad-bomber was, he or she was stirring up an undead hornet’s nest.

I went first, with Jenifer on my heels after Jonathan had handed Coach over to her. He took a couple of the more persi
stent monsters out before vaulting the fence to follow us…show-off. Let him try it being close to six months pregnant. We cut across and, in the same order, climbed the other fence. I felt a little comfort in that the explosions—three more—were now moving away from us.

It was Jonathan who noticed that there was a definite swathe of grass that looked to have been recently trampled. We were all still pretty much on “alert” status. With me taking point, and Coach at my side, I moved towards the house. There was a large deck that held a hot tub and a rusting metal frame that probably used to be a porch swing. The sliding glass door was broken, shards of glass visible mostly just inside what looked like a dining room, which means something probably broke in and got whomever had been hiding out inside.

I had no plans of going inside the house. My objective was the debris-filled cement stairs that led down to the basement. Once I was close I could see a couple of small windows just above ground level...way too small for anything to climb through. It was getting dark, a mad-bomber was blowing up the neighborhood, and zombies were coming out from everywhere. We needed a place to spend the night. That basement seemed the logical choice.

I had to poke around at the bottom of the stairwell b
ecause the dead leaves and garbage was deep enough to conceal a head. It was clear, so I stepped down and tried the door—a sturdy, solid wood-type without any windows—which was locked. By now, Jonathan and Jenifer had caught up and Jonathan was pointing out that the trampled grass came from out front and to the stairs that led up to the deck from the yard. I didn’t really care. Loafers, zombies, survivors like us, whack jobs like The Genesis Brotherhood, nothing was moving inside the house that we could see or hear, and this house was one of the few that didn’t look like it would cave in if a swift breeze blew.

After a little “conversation” I was able to convince the other two that this would be our best option for the night. Jon
athan had me step aside. He can pick locks. Who knew? Just as he opened the door a crack…a sound drifted from the other side that made my hair stand on end along my arms and the back of my neck.

A baby’s cry.

Each of us made eye contact and readied ourselves. Jonathan threw open the door and stepped aside. We all expected Coach to bolt in growling and snarling. Instead, the stupid dog’s tail starts wagging and he bounds in with what I can best describe as a playful woof.

The three of them were huddled in a corner of the mostly wide open basement. A few chairs and a sofa were the only fu
rniture. There were more of those small windows on the other walls, a few on the side farthest from us had the “curtains” open; by curtains, I mean towels hung from hooks. There was enough light to see them. A man, woman, and…a baby.

The man was holding a three-foot long pipe wrench. The woman was holding the baby. That is how we’ve come to meet Victor Pierce, Lynn Huffman, and Adam.

Friday, December 12

“The Genesis Brotherhood sucks!” Details at 11. I am taking a personal dislike to that bunch. The more I learn, the more I am prepared to make it my new life’s mission to elim
inate each and every single one of them.

Victor is a former member.

After spending a day with Victor, Lynn, and Adam, I have a better picture of what the local scene is like. I also know where The Genesis Brotherhood is entrenched. Now we just have to process everything, sort it out, and plan.

In a nutshell, we are smack dab in the middle of a warzone. There are dozens of factions—or tribes—scattered in about a twenty mile radius of Portland. Apparently they spend as much, if not more time, fighting each other as they do the u
ndead. Over half the groups treat women as a commodity! It didn’t take long for us to plummet through the dark ages.

The Genesis Brotherhood is simply one such band. Their distinguishing mark is that they hide behind religion…or their slant on it in any case. I am in no condition to wage a war on them…but I won’t be pregnant forever. Now, more than ever, I am determined to get to Sam’s old complex and have this baby. Then…The Genesis Brotherhood will discover why that old sa
ying exists. You know the one:  “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn.”

Saturday, December 13

I’m trying my best to like Victor Pierce. I am having a really hard time with the fact that this forty-four-year-old man who used to drive a city bus joined up with a pack of sexist degenerates, and “found the err of his ways” after supposedly falling in love with the twenty-year-old girl he knocked up. A girl he considered property at one time.

Today he took a few steps towards my good graces. We hadn’t left this basement in a couple of days and things outside actually seemed quiet. Water was becoming a small concern. After a little discussion, he offered to go out with me on a small fo
raging run. All we absolutely had to find was a water source. We’re actually surprisingly well off in the food department

A grocery store—mostly sacked and burned out—provided us a little treasure. We found two undamaged water-filtration pitchers and a dozen of the filter-cartridges. I had a
rgued against finding anything of value, but Victor has been reading Sam’s and my entries. He reasoned that most of the looters have been after food and weapons and more obvious supply staples.

The biggest problem was all the dark shadowy places for things to hide in. It was in one of these spots that what had once been a child of no older than seven crept out and up behind me. So much of its face had been torn off…along with both hands. The bones jutting out from both stumps would’ve plunged into my back if Victor hadn’t come around the corner to tell me he had found the pitchers and filters. Luck is a funny thing. One more second and…

I can’t believe that thing snuck up on me. And just what was I doing? Rummaging through a jumble of moldy, useless, partially melted containers of powdered baby formula. More impressive was how Victor took down my would-be assailant…he threw a hand-axe from about twenty feet away. It seems his hobby was competing in lumberjack games at the state Timber Carnival.

It takes all kinds.

Sunday, December 14

I don’t get women with the mentality of Lynn Huffman. She is everything that perpetuates the damsel-in-distress stere
otype. Lynn is what men would call an “exotic” beauty. She has olive-toned skin, wavy black hair, and hazel eyes that almost look fake they’re so bright. She is curvy, and even after having given birth a mere two months ago, she has one of
those
types of bodies that used to give men whiplash when she walked past. Other than that…she’s useless.

Even Jonathan commented on her total dependence on Victor. So I get how women like her end up in the hands of groups like The Brotherhood, but Dominique’s flip has me pu
zzled. First, she’s a child. According to Jenifer, she didn’t just give up when they were initially captured, and it seems that her virginity was not surrendered willingly. So how did they brainwash her so quickly and completely?

But back to Lynn. She gets edgy and nervous anytime Victor is not in her line of sight. Also—and this was a real kic
ker—she all but accused me of making a play for Victor. Apparently that was the sole reason I had him join me on yesterday’s foraging run. As if!

Monday, December 15

We’re moving out today. Last night was like the worst parts of living in a warzone/horror movie. Besides…one more day in this damn basement and I’m gonna strangle Lynn.

Thursday, December 18

We’ve made it to the Willamette River. It is a disaster beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined. The good news is that the Marquam Bridge looks to be intact. The bad news is that it is the
ONLY
bridge intact as far as the eye can see.

After spending the past few days ducking in and out of the charred remains that became more and more prevalent as we neared what used to be the sparkling jewel that was dow
ntown Portland, we are finally inside the mostly intact office building situated in between the collapsed ruins of the Hawthorne and ghostly quiet Marquam Bridge. Rotting and blackened corpses are everywhere, strewn like dead leaves in the fall.

We all made it safe. No small miracle. However, I have never known a baby as quiet as Adam. (I did ask his last name; Victor and Lynn say he doesn’t have or need one, that there is no need for a surname because that is the “old” way.  Whatever.)

I have the luxury of a room (an office that used to belong to Resource Allocation Manager: Casey Tripp, according to the slightly askew doorplate) all to myself. We are on the third floor. The fourth is unfinished and wide-open. The bottom two are minor disasters and mostly windowless. This floor is a bit messy, and we had to take out a couple of lone stragglers, but the windows on the south and east sides of the building are unbroken. The north and west sides were exposed to what were obviously terrific explosions and fires. I don’t even want to think of what it must look like farther north and around the slight elbow-bend in the river.