Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (69 page)

Since I had buildings to both sides, I randomly selected right and ducked in between the building and the security wall. That is right about when the first zombie stumbled in. The flare actually helped to scatter the undead as they came in, each wa
ndering away from the offensive light in a different direction. They were all over the place in seconds. That is something I couldn’t have planned and had go that well.

I ran what seemed like a good distance and pulled the gra
ppling hook from my belt to get on top of the wall. From there I had a good view of the compound’s open area. I managed to get off a couple of shots with my crossbow. The lost bolts (there was no way I’d be getting them back) were a good trade. I shot to wound. In no time, the sounds of screaming filled the air. No matter how much of a bad-ass you think you are, being outnumbered fifty-to-one by the walking dead will not work out in your favor.

Then I spotted the big storage tank. I hadn’t planned for it and had to improvise. That meant risking my chance of e
scape. I had to come off the wall and cross about fifty feet of open ground to get close enough for a shot that would stand a chance, then I’d have to lob a flare.

By now, the place was in chaos. I was really happy to
not
hear the sound of gunshots. While they continue to become more and more rare, they tilt the playing field drastically. If you don’t believe me, think back to the guy with the fancy sword in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. What girl didn’t have a crush on Harrison Ford back then?

I lined up my shot and hoped. I really had no idea if my bolt would penetrate, or if there might even be any sort of fuel inside that thing. I was so excited when I heard the angry hiss of what I was certain had to be propane. I lit my flare, threw it, and hauled ass.

Nothing happened.

I was really bummed as I scrambled up my rope. All that risk for no results. Then some sap found my flare. He picked it up. That must’ve put it in line with whatever was coming out of that tank.

The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air backwards. I landed flat, which totally sucked. Had there been even one zombie in the area, I would have been screwed. I just lay sprawled in the brush and dirt trying and failing to get just one molecule of oxygen into my lungs. The tears filling my eyes blurred my vision so that all I could see was a bright smear filling the sky as the fireball rolled skyward, lighting up the night sky. At least it was a pretty orange smear.

Once I could finally move, I made my way to my hands and knees and looked around. I’d been blown
over
the moat. I could still hear shouting and screaming coming from inside the compound. I stayed down and started crawling.

I wanted to get away. I didn’t have any real desire to wi
tness my handiwork. Hell, I didn’t even know how successful I’d been. All I knew for certain was that I’d caused considerable damage and put a nasty kink in the plans of those evil bastards.

The glow from the fire (or fires) let me see a good distance in every direction. The downside of that was that once I was clear of the compound, I had no night vision. I couldn’t see five feet in front of myself. Once I reached the highway, I was basically blind.

I reached some sort of park or recreation area just outside of the main sprawl of Fallon. I climbed up on a wooden bathroom structure and caught my breath. I remember that, as I lay there, I was hoping that the damage was as bad as it looked from the outside.

That was also around the time that the adrenaline wore off. I could suddenly feel every lump, bump, and bruise. There were a lot of them. Also, I felt something wet and sticky on my back. That is when a new pain announced itself above all the others. A stick—about a finger’s diameter—was jutting from my body. I had to reach back and grab it where it stuck out above my right hip. I might’ve screamed when I yanked it out…but since I passed out I can’t be for sure.

When I came to, I realized that I had no choice but to return to town. First, that was where all my things were stashed. But more importantly, I had to try and break into someplace and find some hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol. Also, I needed something to put over this seeping hole in my body. An infection these days is fatal.

The first time that I tried to sit up, my body refused. Pain was firmly entrenched in every muscle and joint. I cried out …loudly.

That was most likely what brought the three zombies. However, I didn’t see them right away. Thank God that Sam had picked up my trail and followed me. He was under a bush. When I heard his growl, then saw him creeping along the ground towards the approaching zombies, my eyes filled with tears.

I put my crossbow to good use then. Afterwards, I climbed down. Actually, that isn’t really an accurate descri
ption of what happened. The pain came in a bolt; I lost my grip, and then fell on my ass. When I landed, I just stayed put for a few minutes gasping for breath while fighting back more tears. Sam, the big dummy, wouldn’t stop licking my face.

Eventually I got up and started back to Fallon. A large, black plume was still rising. On the other side of that bald, ugly hill, I could see movement scattered everywhere.

I did my best to stay hidden when I could as I walked—limped is more like it—back. I slipped through some trees at one point and came face-to-face with an obscenely obese man. Zombies had ripped into his ample guts and all sorts of things dangled from the gaping hole they left behind. Also, his lower lip had been torn away and one meaty cheek hung down, flapping against his jowls as he lumbered along. Maybe I should’ve paid attention to the fact that the blood was still reddish—meaning it was still relatively fresh.

I speared him through the face. If you can score a hit to the eye socket, it is almost a guaranteed “kill shot” every time. After that, I was a bit more vigilant, as much as I could be through the pain. I’d been so worried about staying out of sight that I wasn’t paying attention to what else might be wandering around in the shadows, or when I came out of blind spots.

Most of the houses in the area were already well-looted. It was fairly late in the morning, close to noon maybe, when I finally lucked into a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some linens that were stacked neatly in the closet of an elderly couple’s trailer. (I know they were elderly because the pictures were still hanging on the walls.)

This place hadn’t been touched. The couple had obviously eva
cuated. Drawers were empty and still open; the bedroom closet was open and selectively picked through. The kitchen was a complete bust except for a Ziploc bag of pinto beans on a pantry shelf that I took.

I cleaned up as best as I could and found a shirt that act
ually fit. Then Sam and I made it back to my stuff. After giving him some water and taking a brief catnap, I was as ready to go as I could be.

After serious thought, I decided to leave the bicycle. I couldn’t pedal it. Walking was painful, but sitting and pedaling was out of the question. Also, I needed to stay as concealed as possible. That would be impossible on the bike. There was a lot of activity in Fallon now; some of it far too fast to be a zombie. That meant some of the ‘yay-hoos’ probably escaped. I seriou
sly doubted that any of the women made it out of there alive.

I felt better once I had Sam’s and my journals back. I won’t lie. I didn’t realize until I’d spent that night away from them and doubting I would make it back, but they’re like my security blanket. My therapy. Also, I realized for the first time that there is something in my ritual about noting the date. In just that one day away from those books, I’d forgotten what day it was.

Every morning when I wake up, even if I am not going to write anything, I make a tally mark in the book. Does the date matter anymore? Probably not. But, for me, it is just something I need. I always know what day and date it is.

I am certain that a shrink would have a lot to say about all of this. It has become my little OCD thing. How else can I explain the risk I went through to come back for them. All the times I have made certain I had the books even when I was fo
rgetting things like food and weapons. And for what reason? Is my daughter ever going to read these? I’d say that the odds are against her ever seeing any of this. Hell…will anybody see it?

Still, my trusty mutt and I slipped out a couple hours before su
nset and headed east. All I could remember was that I needed to find Route 361. My hope was that I could get away from Fallon without drawing any kind of attention to myself.

On that goal…I failed.

I was following US Route 50 and had just turned south. I was heading back into the mountains, and by the looks of things…a bit of a wasteland. It was dark, but the moon was a bright, silver disk in the night sky. I had enough ambient light to see—sort of.

When Sam stopped and suddenly turned around, sniffing the air and growling, I expected a zombie, or maybe even a few, to come shambling out of the shadows. When the dark figure broke into a run straight towards me, I was glad that I happened to be carrying my crossbow.

In movies, a person dies with one well-placed shot. This one caught a bolt in the body close to the bottom of his ribcage. I bet it punctured his lung. What it didn’t do was stop him. Sam took off and leaped at my living attacker. That is what gave me enough time to draw my big knife.

I think about those split seconds a lot. If I would have run at my attacker while drawing my blade. If my bolt would have been a few inches up and to the right hitting him in the heart. If. If. If.

My grandpa used to say, “If worms had guns birds wouldn’t fuck with them.”

I am sure there are a hundred “ifs” that would result in Sam still being alive. I got there just as I heard the yelp. I’d never heard my dog yelp before. He didn’t seem to be afraid of anything. And…he was a good dog. Maybe I should have named him something else. Maybe that name is cursed.

When I got there, the man was on his knees with his back to me. I drove my knife into his back—the blade was long enough to stick out of his chest. He fell sideways, but I got a little scared when he tried to climb back to his feet. I have no idea how many times I stabbed him with my spear.

At some point, I stopped. Leaving the spear sticking up from the body, I went to my dog. My stupid mutt. I was still holding him and crying when the sun came up.

There was some sort of industrial-looking complex, and it might have even been an airport, but a nasty fire made it hard to tell. I carried Sam there and found a piece of metal that I could scoop up dirt with. That’s where I buried Sam and covered the grave with a mound of rocks. I think it was noonish by the time I finished. The whole time, I cried off and on. A few times, I had to stop what I was doing in order to put down a roaming zombie or two.

I found a dark, empty, burned out building to hide in and catch a nap. I think God might still exist.

It was late in the afternoon when the earthquake struck. When I woke up, my first thought was that I had been discovered; either by the survivors of the place I blew up or by a herd of zombies. Things were falling and there was that sound. When I realized what it was, I tried to get up, but kept falling down because the ground was rolling.

Finally, it stopped. That’s when I discovered how close to death I had come. Just like that “little” earthquake in Portland, the zombies had fallen over and laid still. I’d guess their nu
mbers to be close to a hundred. And it was obvious right away that they were all heading for the ruins of the building that I had ducked into.

That was another mistake I made that day. I didn’t stop to think about what might have led them to me. I certainly didn’t consi
der the possibility that one or more bad guys might be out there; much less hot on my trail. I didn’t wait for the zombies to get up. I took off. I did stop off at a creek to fill my canteen sometime that evening around dusk.

When I finally found a place to stop, it was in the cab of a jac
kknifed semi.   I was just getting comfortable in the sleeper part when I heard something. In a dead world, the voices of the living really stand out, even when people speak in hushed tones. I made sure that my crossbow was ready and then set my big knife where I could grab it quick. If the owners of those voices tried to get in the truck, I’d get one good shot, after that, I would have to rely on my skills with the blade.

I was thankful when they passed. Then I heard that soft, fem
inine whisper, and the sound of a slap. There wasn’t really a choice as to what I had to do. I waited long enough for the owners of those voices to get a little ways away from me before I climbed out of the truck and started after them.

I got close enough to make out three men and one wo
man. When they peeled off from the highway and cut into the brush and dirt headed towards the mountain, I almost let them go. After all, I can’t save everybody.

Then they made camp.

These cowboys just picked a spot and flopped down. There wasn’t anything special about it. A few minutes later, they had a little fire going. Then they did what I expected; they turned their attention to that poor woman.

The worst part was listening to what they were doing while I planned my attack. The way I figured it, I would have one shot with my crossbow. I could try for a second, but I nee
ded to have my big blade ready. After taking a few deep breaths, I lined up my shot and took it. Finally a little luck came my way. The bolt was fired from a close enough range that it must have passed clean through. The big man collapsed, and his buddy obviously thought it was because he had just finished. As they were rousing their friend…or at least trying to…I got off a second shot. I risked it and aimed for the face of the man whose dirty grin I could see in the glow of the fire they’d built.