Strides & Steps in the Life of the Seasons

The last vestiges of Summer sun
Relieve these days of late
---with the rains and the winds
     these days were wet, if not cold---
An offering, a tease, a reminder
Of the Universe
That all is fleeting in this world
---most and least of all being Hope.

Tread not into decaying days of Autumn
With trepidations or fear
Of the coming cold--or beyond
To the days of Winter.
---though this future may seem bleak
    with the promise of death--
    it is of great import
    that we do not forget:
    Life will Spring eternal
    ---so as it does and will with Hope---
And the Summer sun
    will, once again,
Shine down and give life
Before the Fall does strike again.

Soak up the light--and bask in your Life--
Before the Winter chills your soul
---and be joyous of the knowledge
    and hopeful of heart
    that the Spring will lead another
    ---and another, followed by others--many others--
    into the sunlight of all those long, hot future Summers.

It's a shame that so many choose
To squander this light--this Life--
And squabble about until our days are rotten and wrought
With hubris and ideals
That make these days the days of---
    ---the Seasons of---
         ---these ways of---
Ex-communal, mass discontent.

Obstacles of ruin

Entry 010:

It still amazes me the amount of paper in this place; I could conceivably write indefinitely with such a supply. And the pens; innumerable boxes of them (well, I’m sure I could count them – if I so cared…which I don’t). Either the property owner was a hoarder of paper, or a writer. Or maybe even some mix of the two. —Maybe the property owner was a writer who worked for Hammermill and therefore had a nearly unlimited reserve of paper reams – who knows? I sure don’t. And I don’t really care, either. But since it’s here, I’m going to keep utilizing it for this purely self-serving (non)-purpose…I guess…Got nothing better to do until the snow melts enough for me to make the trek to anywhere else but here – or until the winter swallows what remains of my measly life. Although, after last week’s brief respite, I am living quite like a king – relatively so, that is; like a penniless king who fought and foraged for the scraps that are a comparative feast to that of his previous meals…Okay, so that was exactly how I scored my current cache of food, minus the part about being a king.

Actually…now that I think about it…hmmm...one might consider me king of this realm since I have yet to encounter another living person. Granted, if this is to be so, then the only subjects of my rule are the zombisicles that still surround my current abode. Pah! Some subjects they are; completely useless to me, especially this time of year, being all frozen and such…

Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there – just more of my nonsensical babbling. More proof that I’m slowly losing what’s left of my mind…

So…where was I? Let me look back on my work here, real quick....

Yes, yes: I was riding out of Ashford on that oh-so-faithful bicycle of mine. (That thing got me through a lot; shocking it lasted me as long as it did.) By the time it crapped out, I hardly needed it any longer. After all, as we all know by now, the threat of zombie hordes has all but vanished – densely packed regions are still out there, but I’m guessing that these are moreso restricted to the cities…those that weren’t firebombed, that is. Although, some might argue that the scattered packs or individual zombies are more dangerous to a traveler’s health (thus the communities that have sprouted here and there, but I find those more dangerous than a random attack on the trail; people can be vicious, I’ve seen it with my own eyes far too many times…but we’ll return to that at a later date).

Again, I ramble on…I could spout theories and stratagems for days, but that would not suit the purpose of these memoirs – these scrawlings. Back to the story of my past:

All was well and good for a short while; slip a pair of ghouls reaching for me from behind a truck, dodge a crawler before it could snatch my wheel (don’t want to do that again). But with every pump of the pedal and turn of the wheel I found the highway to be more crowded. The sky was yet dark at that time; a light haze was painted over a sliver of darkness in the east, but not so much as to light my path – and most of this was behind the trees, anyhow.

Silent as I was, however, most of this growing horde was ignorant to my passage. The ones that groaned at me certainly attracted the attention of some, but by the time they laboriously turned toward this groaning alarm, I was gone. I did have one slight problem, though: my wheel – the back one, which was yanked so fiercely the night before – was beginning to squeak. Now, this on its own would not have been much of a problem at all; just keep on the move and there was no chance of being caught. Well, less of a chance…as it so happened…The fact of it all is: I would have been just fine if I had seen the curb and the car…but I hadn’t…

You know the phrase: That [insert inanimate object] jumped out of nowhere! —Yeah, we all know that phrase – whether it be a door, a table, a wall, a curb – and many of us have probably even uttered that nonsensical phrase (I know I have). Well, that’s kind of what it felt like right then: the damn curb jumped out of nowhere! I was careening through the growing thicket of zombies when all of a sudden: wham! My front wheel finds the only curb around. And the car? (I did mention a car). Yeah, I didn’t see that, either. But I sure did get a good look at the underside of the rear bumper, wheel-well, and tire (surprisingly clean undercarriage and wheel-well, and the tires were primo quality with fantastic tread…). I can’t quite recall the make or model – not that I cared, being slightly concussed at the time – but I remember that it was a nice one, new and expensive. I was too dazed and frenzied to steal much of a glance upon standing – especially since it took me a good while to get back on my feet. Though, I do recall the one blemish; a softball-sized dent from where I crowned the bumper. I briefly inspected this with a blurry eye and tingly hand, mostly to gauge the severity of my own wound.

I don’t know how long I was out, nor could I estimate how long I rolled about uncomprehendingly – I didn’t even know where I was when my vision cleared! Even still, once I managed to shake a bit of the delirium from my head, I popped straight up, staff in hand, ready for a brawl. But I was in the clear (relatively so, that is). A number of ghouls had heard, if not seen, the wreck, and a cascade of groans was rising on the light morning breeze. This cascade was loudest in the east, swelling with such a fever that I could not fathom the size of this horde. My best guess at that time would have been hundreds, and even that was a far cry from their actual number. (My guess now, after having killed a great number of them myself, would be closer to two thousand, give or take a few hundred…but don’t concern yourself just yet as to how I came to killing so many of them, for my tale shall explain this all – in time.)

Since they weren’t upon me yet, I could not have been out for more than a few seconds, and dazed for maybe twice that time, but no more. Just thirty seconds total would have cost me my life, so I was surely out of commission for less than twenty seconds. Before recovering my bike, I brained three of the ghouls in my immediate proximity; two were closing in on me by foot and were within a couple yards of my position; the third was considerably closer, but was crawling, and therefore literally inching its way toward me. After braining the first two with my staff, I kicked the crawler in the head – I don’t think the blow killed it, but it posed little enough threat that I did not concern myself with total annihilation. After a brief assessment of the front wheel, I hopped onto my bicycle and was away at once.

Remember the squeaky axle I mentioned earlier? It was nothing in comparison to the squall that was now produced by my front wheel. The wreck had apparently damaged it in some way. None too bad, though – superficially, anyhow. The squall was loud enough to call far too much attention to myself. Hungry, ferocious groans and snarls and howls erupted near and far. I could feel them closing in all around me. Dirty, mangled hands groped from the nearer ones – some of them brushed my arm, and a couple damn near caught hold of my sleeve (none found purchase – thank the Heavens and Universe!).

By this point in my morning ride (brief as it was, as of yet), the street was not only becoming more clogged with curiously pedestrian ghouls, but also with vehicles which ran the gambit; from motorcycles and mopeds all the way up the scale to RVs and semis (just the cabs in all but one case; ironically, the only semi with an attached trailer belonged to a moving and storage company which just so happened to be based out of Olympia…go figure). Interestingly enough, there were far more everyday diesels trailing fifth-wheels and boats than semis hauling goods.

First of all: though I had never been over this pass before, I was certain that, given all the roads leading up to it, this particular pass was not designed for semi-trailers (not that I, being inexperienced on the matter, would know this for certain). And secondly (a point which is still baffling to this day): what’s with the boats? The ocean’s the other direction, ya ding-dongs…What were they hoping to accomplish? Were they so attached to their possessions that they had to haul away the entire house when facing a possible pandemic (note the moving and storage semi-trailer…)? Or had they loaded it up with supplies and/or other survivors – other refugees? Both are plausible, but unverifiable.

Before long, the road was impassible due to the density of derelict vehicles. I swung up and around this wall of vehicles, narrowly avoiding innumerable pairs of hands as I maneuvered the bicycle off the pavement and onto soft earth (I stood on my ride to avoid the bumps). I circled around a shop of some sort and dismounted before entering the vast forest that stood behind it. Huffing and puffing, I raced through the thicket with my bicycle up on one shoulder; one hand gripped the frame while the other stabilized the front wheel and kept overall balance. I kept a swift pace and a keen eye, and I ran until I felt no pursuit. And then, my pace only slowed a mite. Some minutes later, certain that I’d lost them, I leaned the bike against a tree and retched on a shrub of some sort. I retched until I was empty and dry-heaving. Once I was finally finished with all this, I staggered backward to rest on a tree of my own.

A little more light painted the eastern sky – not much, but a little. I’m not sure if it was this meager helping of light, or just instinct and subconscious cues, but I sensed a vast clearing a short distance ahead. When I finally caught my breath, I heaved the bike back on my shoulder and trudged through the last of the thicket.

I found my way blocked – I almost stumbled into razor wire!

The place I found – the property that was the clearing I'd sensed – was some sort of abandoned military installation. I weighed my options as I circumnavigated the perimeter; chance my fate in the labyrinth of of tents beyond the impressive perimeter (which consisted of the tallest chainlinks I'd ever seen, stout jersey barriers, and razor wire); or press on, up the mountain. Though the eastern end of the installation was clear of any threats (I heard not a groan or moan either near or far – quite the contrast from the trek just outside of Ashford), which apparently marked safety up the mountainside, if only for a while, I decided to test the waters inside the walls of the abandoned military installation.

Save for the numerous dead bodies spread wildly about the grounds, I found myself alone. I made my way through the labyrinth of tents until I found one filled with cots. I made myself at home and fell asleep nearly at once.

I shall leave you with that tidbit, for now, as I have, in my current state, also grown sleepy. Good night, and fare thee well, for I shall scrawl more of this prose in naught but a day or two. –Adieu.

Preamble of Ashford

Entry 009:

Wow. I seriously feel rested today. And warm. My belly is screaming for more food, but that’s just because it got a taste of some and has since been insatiable. But I know better – and I know I can survive with water for breakfast. So that’s just what I do; I sip until my stomach ceases its grumbling. Before long, I feel as though I’ve eaten – quite the trick to play on one’s own digestive system!

I really can’t remember the last time I awoke with this much zeal. It feels like eons, but I’m sure I felt this way only a few years ago. The best I can pinpoint this sensation is the season: strangely enough, the last time I felt this alive was wintertime. I know it was after the pandemic spread, because I was worried about zombies instead of homework. I want to say it was during that first winter, since I have a vague feeling that I was still eating and sleeping regularly, but I could very well be wrong – on every count of the blurry recollection. This supposed sensation – or recollection, or whathaveyou – also has the distinct flavor of wishful thinking; perhaps I’ve never felt this way in my entire life, and in my current delusional state I want so badly to believe that I have previously awoken as such so that maybe I can hold onto some slim memory of a life that, in all actuality, never was…

Or maybe I’m just going crazy, and pointlessly – if not obsessively – ranting with this ill-begot pen of mine about half-truths of a life of which the memories are slowly distorting or altogether fizzling. It's so hard to discern reality from fantasy – both past and present...all that keeps me grounded anymore are the words previously written. Surely, I couldn't have been so crazy at the onset of all this. So the tale of my past, as written thusfar, must be real...I hope...so maybe the ancillary memories I (supposedly) recall are real as well...

Real or fantasy, the next piece of my tale (as I recall it right now) is as follows:

The town of Elbe was a trip. First, I noticed the bizarre absence of people, vehicles, and ghouls alike. Second, I found the local Kirche (an old landmark of the town) was burnt to the ground. The steeple had collapsed inward and the cross stood out from the rubble at an awkward angle; it was charred impiously, unapologetically. And then, as I passed a house near the edge of town, I felt a disturbing presence and cold eyes that augered down to the depths of my soul.

Pedaling as fast as my weary feet could pedal, I sped away from this eerie town.

A little further down the road, a large-caliber machinegun startled me off the road. From the sounds of it, someone was blasting the crap out of the countryside from a moving vehicle. While lunching in the forest – scared to this position by the approaching machinegun-fire – I saw the vehicle; it was a green pickup truck with a .50-caliber mounted in the bed. The bullets ripped through a nearby tree, but I managed to avoid a smashed-in face by ducking behind a fallen tree. And after the fear of these maniacs subsided, I climbed a large oak and settled in for a quick bit of shut-eye.

—I remember quite vividly my surprise at having awoken to full-dark. I had apparently been exhausted enough to sleep for hours and the day had hence been washed away. I laughed at myself and climbed back down to my bicycle.

Still quite groggy, despite energizing my blood with every pump of the pedals, I failed to weave through a throng a little ways down the highway. One of them caught a hold of my wheel and sent me sprawling. But my reflexes, however groggy I may have been, were still quite keen and I brained the lot of them in a matter of moments. Though, I’m quite sure that anybody watching would have been witness to a rather entertaining bout indeed. They approached from every angle and I swung and spun and pirouetted through them with the grace of a ballet dancer. (Or maybe that’s my ego speaking; I probably swung wildly and stumbled over myself, landing lucky shots on my way to this great escape…)

In any case, I was away in a flurry, sheathing my staff on my first pump of the pedal. A fresh gale of groans followed my escape – a good plenty of them, from the sound. But I pedaled on, my eyes sharp in the dim starlight, worrying more over the road ahead – and rightly so!

What this road eventually brought to me was intriguing, if not enlightening, as well. The people I encountered in Ashford gave me my first glimpse of the desperation of man. They were convinced of a concerted military effort that would eventually rescue them. Well, the pair I dealt with the most had this view, at least. The other pair – as this band consisted of a mere four individuals – I met only in passing. (I would later come to know one quite well, but that is a story for another day; as of this particular day, I only met her in passing.)

They were holed-up in a mountaineer’s shop. More specifically, they had made camp in the back rooms of this shop; the storefront itself was darkened to conceal their presence. To their credit, this band was quite aware of security; keeping to the back rooms was just one precaution. They kept watch, day and night, and had modified the slanted roof with makeshift scaffolding on which the watchman could settle or strafe comfortably. I never saw this modification myself, but they told me it was quite the marvel. I had – and have – no reason to doubt this.

The pair I dealt with was mountaineers; the other two were tourists (according to the first pair, anyhow). Greg and Bucky…interesting fellows indeed. One was young (Greg) – perhaps my age, give or take; the other (Bucky) was middle-aged and soft-spoken. They spoke mostly of their impending rescue and asked on the outside world. I told them what little I knew of the circumstances (which, as you well know, wasn’t really all that much). They were in disbelief that I didn’t know more and tried to press me on the matter until it was apparent that I had no information to give. I told them an abridged version of my tale, asked of theirs. We shared in hot cocoa and discussed the worldly ramifications of the scourge, wondering how far it had spread and whatnot.

They were desperate. All four of them were. Though they seemed to separate themselves from the mountaineers, the tourists (Rhea and Jothan – with a soft J – I believe were their names) were also desperate. Desperate to understand, desperate to recover what they had lost – desperate to live. They wore this desperation clearly on their faces, and carried its hefty girth upon their shoulders. It bled so freely from each of these four that even I began to step in it. I wanted to get away before I began to soak in it. But I couldn’t leave until morning light.

At least, that’s what I told myself…

I tried to rest after a spell – after the conversations and cocoa ran dry. But this attempted rest was distracted and fitful – my fear of their desperation ate at the free space in my head, as if it were a condition that was catching. It was illogical, I know. But I felt a vortex about the place and knew that if I remained I’d be sucked into the drama and desperation.

After a few hours of failed sleep and an internal dialogue about excuses for my departure, I decided to just sneak out. And so I did. Dawn was nearly upon the world, so I was near to my goal of waiting until daylight. This logic, plus the irrational fear of wading in the emotions of others, sufficed in cementing my resolution.

Nobody witnessed my departure – and for this I was thankful.

When the headlights shined across my backpath, two thoughts shot through my head: first, that the crazed machinegun truck had returned to wreak havoc on the town of Ashford; second, that the military was indeed beginning their rescue operations. My intuition tended toward the former rather than the latter, and fueled my fear, which pumped the adrenaline I used to pedal into the darkness. I felt alight and exposed in the headlights’ beams and was thankful when I outrode their reach. I was even more thankful when I realized these headlights were no longer following the highway. My best guess is that they, too, stopped at the shop (this was a subject to which I’d never be privy).

That morning I slept a few hours atop a roof on the outskirts of town. After waking, I would make my way to a place that, in time, would hold a great deal of personal growth and social understanding (as well as a greater understanding of the scourge and its victims).

But that is a story for another day…for now I must rest my cramping hand and find some sleep. Rest yourself, as well, weary traveler, and fear not the disease; just know it exists – and so do you. Adieu…

Close encounters...

Entry 008:

 All my hopes and dreams came true today: after God-only-knows how many days I went without food, the blizzard finally let up enough for me to venture outside. Okay, so maybe not all of my hopes and dreams came true; I wasn’t miraculously rescued and brought to a veritable utopia full of food, drink, women, and warmth – and I’m fairly certain the scourge is still ravaging the world…But through my foraging, I am still maintaining this meager existence I call my life.

(I often wonder why I don’t put myself out of this misery…I guess I’m just that type of masochist…)

How good it feels to eat! I have a newfound zeal for life after today!

(Wow…okay, I’m definitely losing it.)

Anyhow…let me resume my tale…

I last left you with a picture of my befuddled figure standing over a desecrated bag of trail mix. I had awoken in a tree somewhere in the middle of the forest – somewhere near Fossil Rock, if my memory of the area serves me correctly. It would seem as though I had fallen asleep while munching on the trail mix and had dropped the bag in my sleep. I can only assume that the contents of which were scavenged and socked away by some squirrel – or another such rodent. No great loss, considering I was still stocked with an assortment of food. But still not the way one wants to rise in the morning when food has become something of a precious commodity.

What I hadn’t told you before is that I had stowed my bicycle behind a cluster of bushes. I wasn’t too concerned with it being stolen out there, but the last thing I wanted was for such an unlikely occurrence to actually occur. That, and I wasn’t too keen on advertising my presence to anybody who might happen by the remote locale – not after my run-in with Roger Lawless, or the nonsensical, bloody scene of blasted militants back on the highway. Humans were obviously not to be trusted when shit hits the fan…not that I really trusted them beforehand.

With one last glance at the desecrated bag of trail mix, I retrieved my bicycle from behind the bushes and started off down the rocky road. The ride was uneventful for some time. I came across deep tracks of a large dually that had sat for some time in the rain – perhaps all night. But I paid this little mind as I rode down a steep grade to a quaint dam. The gates were wide open, the chopped lock lying to one side – a discarded husk of supposed security. I rode on without stopping to soak in the view, following the road around the other side of the river.

I found a gruesome scene a little ways down. A utility vehicle had apparently careened down the hillside and crashed into a tree, thus ejecting one of the occupants. From the looks of him, the man was infected prior to said ejection. I was fortunate that his brains were splattered across the tree, or else I might have to throw down. And I was most certainly not ready to throw down that morning.
The truck looked as though it had been pushed by something large (my guess is whichever dually camped out in the forest the night before). I proceeded up the road, following the backpath of the utility vehicle. Marks of its journey scarred a number of the trees and littered the road; a mirror there, some plastic shards there. Looking back on it, I should have seen the signs…ah, but what sort of lesson would it have been?

I nearly plowed into the ghoul at the top of the hill. Instead, I clipped it and lost control of the handling for a moment. And just when I thought I had it all under control, my front wheel went off the pavement and threw me from my seat. I went sprawling across loose gravel and gathered a couple lacerations in the process. The bike took a tumble, too, but it fared much better than I did.

After only a moment’s disorientation, I hopped to my feet, staff in hand. The damn thing was nearly upon me already! I swung low, catching it in the belly, then brought my staff up high and smashed the ghoul with a decisive blow to the skull. It crumpled at once. With no other immediate threat, I sheathed my staff and pulled my bicycle back onto the road. I took off like a flash, skirted a blocking semi and trailer by the soft earth to one side. About half a mile down, another ghoul was staggering eastward along the highway. I gave this one a wide berth and avoided it without incident.

And then I found myself – without warning – in what some people would consider a town. This little bend in the highway consisted of a wrecking yard and general store; supposedly separate entities, seeing as they were on opposite sides of the highway. Though, it’s anyone’s guess at this point…
The wrecking yard’s front windows and façade were all painted over with red crosses. The large bay windows at the front were solid red. It had to be paint; no amount of humans – that I could then fathom – could produce that much blood in such a small town. Black smoke billowed from the chimney and I wondered briefly over the occupants of this establishment. Certainly they had been healthy recently enough to kindle a fire under the hearth. One thought that never crossed my mind was actively seeking out their aid or succor. Anybody who paints that many large, red crosses over a building’s façade is too fargone for me.

The general store was located in a quaint, unsuspecting looking abode – an easy-to-miss establishment, if you’re not looking for it. But I was. After the rains of last night, I realized one colossal mistake I’d made: I forgot to pack a poncho. And it wouldn’t hurt to replenish my water supply – why not, when it’s all-you-can-drink these days? Well, it was until the water went stagnant.

But that’s a tale for another day.

With at least one zombie closing in on this little bend in the road, I kept my stop brief. I was in and out in two minutes, with a fresh bottle of water, an impossibly small box that contained a large poncho, and two Cliff Bars. I chowed down on one of these while riding out of town. I reached the next gruesome scene of the day just as I was finishing this midday snack of mine.

A pair of bloody, dented utility vehicles – one was on its side and half crushed by the other – were blocking the southeast lane. Scattered about the trucks was a mess of dead ghouls and utility supplies – there had been a showdown here. Marching away from this scene was a gory, two-lane trail of smudged and dragged footprints. The horde had made it maybe a half mile down the road – give or take – and I could see their bobbing form from where I stood astride my trusty bicycle.

A lightbulb flickered uncertainly over my head, and I heaved my bike over the barbwire fence to the north. And then I climbed over one of the posts and started across the open field, keeping to my generally southeast heading. The farmland was broad enough that I easily bypassed the staggering horde. I smiled at my ingenuity as I watched them clamor after me; they mindlessly gouged themselves on the barbs of the fenceline without a hint of discomfort. Soon enough, they became a piece of my past as I sailed on into the afternoon sunlight.

That, my faithful readers, is all I can produce for tonight. Mayhap, now that I’m restocked on my supplies, I will feel up to the task of writing tomorrow. But only time will tell right now. What I can assure you, however, is that I will return to this task in due time. I am a new man, now! Nothing can stop me! –Adieu.

Cabin Fever

  Entry 007:

Reading back on some of my previous scrawlings, I find that I am quite the fatalist. Sure, I’m probably going to die out here in this blizzard-beaten cabin. And I really do think that every night is my last. My thoughts are plagued with thoughts of what it will feel like to freeze to death. If it happens in my sleep, I’m sure I’ll hardly notice (though I might have some really messed-up dreams in direct correlation to the deep chills my body will feel). But if it happens while I’m awake – the onset of hypothermia – I wonder what it might be like. They say that drowning feels like you’re falling asleep. But they don’t tell you what freezing to death might feel like. I doubt it’s like falling asleep, but I do wonder if there comes a time when you cease to feel the freeze. Maybe it won’t be so bad in the end.

In conjunction with this, I find that I refer (perhaps too often) to my “audience” as imaginary or most likely non-existent. I have no doubts that I will be lacking an audience for these scrawlings of mine, seeing as the likelihood of anybody finding them is astronomical. I don’t even know where I’m at exactly, and it’s likely that this cabin may never have another visitor or tenant; our future is still quite precarious. Heck, even if humanity rebuilds some semblance of its former self, this cabin might just be rubble under twenty feet of snow. It sure seems as though it’ll be swallowed up in this current blizzard. (How the sky can hold so much frozen precipitation in one place – and for such an extended period of time – is mind-boggling.)

Yet I still write…without a prospective audience, I still write…

Whether this place kills me or not, it will certainly rob me of my sanity before I die. It’s already stolen a portion of it. My scrawlings are proof of this. Paradoxically, though, they also help me retain bits of myself, extending the process of going completely bonkers. Or so I think…

But I have digressed…back to my earlier point: fatalism. Well, to be more precise: my overuse of fatalist statements. As when I called myself out for being my own peanut gallery, I shall now call myself out on my fatalism. From here on out, I’ll try to avoid such statements as “perhaps I will freeze tonight” or “hopefully I’ll survive the night.” Henceforth, these possibilities will simply be implied. And then, if my story is incomplete, my fan-base (har-har) will understand that I died here. Maybe there will also be a detailed footnote about the state in which my body was found – I could be an archaeological specimen! And then, if I were to reanimate after death, my body would be of more value in death than it has been in life. Just think about it: frozen, uninfected man reanimates as zombie after thawing – the implications!

(Writing longhand, one can easily forget that you can’t just edit out wild tangents by selecting and deleting, as one would do on a computer. Thus my tangents, like the one above, is now and forever apart of these memoirs – these scrawlings. My apologies.)

But really: the implications of such a thing…

Damn, how this predicament has altered me so…

Through all the years of this “apocalypse” – through all the hard-fought fables and follies of this scourge – I have always managed to avoid such a predicament. How I allowed such a fate to befall myself is still a mystery to me. I know the circumstances – I even had the opportunity to influence these circumstances to my benefit, however slim this chance may have been – and still I can’t believe it all. If only I had seen through the smokescreen sooner…I’ll never be able to forgive myself for all my inactions. From the deaths of all my closest friends all the way up until this late point in my life, my inactions have caused far too many untimely demises.

Heck, as I see it now, my imminent death is atonement for all the lives lost by the inaction of my idle hands. Which is okay in my book; this just means that the big wheel of Karma is working its way back to me. (It’s probably taken so long due to the overwhelming population of ingrates and assholes that this scourge has created or enabled – which, by my estimation, is most every remaining survivor…but that’s just my opinion on the matter.) Freezing to death must be the most suitable tenfold end for someone who’s frozen up in so many crucial situations. Which means that such a death probably won’t be so pleasant, after all.

Then again, maybe it will feel ten times as uneventful as every moment of failed courage. If this is the case, I guess the sensation will be more akin to the deepest, most hopeless sorrow; an empty, soulless sensation chillier than Neptune’s most remote tundra.

And so, with such epic fatalism staining these tattered pages, I must move on and leave these thoughts at the back of your head. For they are discouraging thoughts, and do nothing to further my tale – or whatever life it is I have carved out of this horrifyingly surreal life.

The blizzard is still berating me. I think it’s died down some. Perhaps I’ll even manage an excursion outside in the next day or so. If I don’t, then it may be malnutrition that takes me down before anything else. And when the weather does die down, I’m just hoping I’ll still have the energy to make my way out, and the poise to forage for whatever fruits this frozen wasteland has to offer. Being so late in the day already, I won’t be able to venture out today. But if it lets up by the morning, I’m sure I’ll have the wherewithal to forage tomorrow.

I’m still managing the disciplined rationing of firewood (somehow). I’m also doing well with my water supply; I now store bags of water under my armpits to keep them from freezing. This helps me ration both water and wood. My excrement remains problematic, despite my lack of solid waste. I have since been unwilling to recycle my urine, and pray that I’m dead or gone before resorting to such extremes. Though, I still face this quandary daily.

At least I haven’t put any serious thought into autocannibalism…

My waking periods have gotten shorter. I think I’m falling asleep as many as four times a day. But I can’t tell how long I sleep – sometimes I don’t even realize I’ve been asleep until I wake up – so I could be sleeping entire days away without knowing it. Everything is beginning to feel like a dream, and I think I’m even beginning to hallucinate (though I can’t be entirely certain of this with my grip on reality slipping away). Even now, as I grasp for my sanity with these scrawlings, shadows jump at me while the walls wheeze and whisper. More than once, I could swear I’d been tapped on the shoulder. I must admit: I did whip around to confront whoever it may have been. I kept expecting to find the stony stare of Death and his cold touch, but only ever found an empty cabin full of dancing shadows and the living, breathing walls that would surely gobble me up – in due time, of course. These walls are apparently content with torturing me for the time being.

There I go again, babbling the day away with my problems while ignoring the memoirs altogether. I apologize for this and will try to get some real work done at my next session. Maybe then I’ll have eaten something. As for now, I’m off to sleep with my painfully empty belly. Good night. May it not be the last.

The open road (continued)...

Entry 006:

It seems I survived the night. Despite my love for these scrawlings, as I so eloquently deemed them, I’m still not sure if my survival is good or bad – as it stands right now, my survival is merely unpleasant.

The blizzard is slowly burying me alive. Even if it lets up, I’ll have one helluva time digging my way out for sustenance – of which, I have one remaining sliver of meat. My stomach is a constant rumble. I haven’t defecated in two days. And my body has trouble retaining any heat, whether ambient or induced. I try to exercise, but find I have very little stamina for any form of exertion. Even pacing has become a chore. And God forbid I have to salvage more wood from the furniture. The only thing holding me back from tossing the entire side of the couch into the fire earlier was self-discipline. (I had to set it aside, pace around, and breathe rhythmically to calm myself before returning to the task of breaking it down further.)

But enough of my current struggles, however intriguing they may be to you, my imaginary reader. Let me return to the tale of my past. Though, I bet you’re wondering by now whether I’m going to continue with the constant play-by-play of my entire life. I assure you that I will not. There will undoubtedly be portions of these memoirs which I’ll glaze over. The beginning just seems – to me, at least – important. I don’t want to leave anything out, if that makes sense. They were traumatic, life-changing days, and every moment feels important. Anybody living today should be able to relate to this feeling. Just as anybody who passed on since the outbreak could probably, before having passed, relate to my current predicament. Alas, none of them are alive to confirm or deny this statement…

Anyhow…back to the day I lost Daisy Jane and fell asleep in a tree after wrecking her damnable car. I remember having some sort of weirdly ominous – and lucid – dream about a world on fire and demons battling. I saw the fated journey of a favorable quartet; a journey wrought with hardships and chaos and turmoil and death. And though I knew my destiny lay not with this quartet, I was aware of the deep sorrow I felt at their hardships and losses. This was undoubtedly in response to the vague sensation that my own fate was entangled – however obscurely – with the fate of these four.

I know how crazy that sounds. And, to this date, I have yet to feel the déjà vu of this long-gone sensation of entangled fates. This, in my estimation, means that my dream that day was a giant turd of malevolent egotism. Which – I guess – means that it really is as crazy as it sounds…

Crazy dreams aside, I awoke with a start to the sounds of an old, big-block engine. I dropped to the ground without so much as a cursory glance; I landed, ready for an attack (I had heard the zombies as they milled about during my slumber). But apparently, they had also started after the rumbling engine.

Racing through the brush, I encountered both of these trundling zombies; I tripped the first one and brained the next. And then I burst through the foliage and onto the road. But the rumbling vehicle that had awoken me was already trundling down the road. I chased after it, but the occupants hardly took note of me. I think one of the men in the back saw me, but I can’t be sure. Even if he did, he probably thought I was another damn zombie.

I leaned on my staff for a time thereafter, catching my breath. I wondered what I should do then. Where I should go; I pondered over an actual destination, whether transitory or final. After a short time, I decided to at least head east – in the direction of the military vehicle. Maybe more would follow. Moreover: maybe one would rescue me. At the time, I still had faith in the military. It was only a few days later that all such hopes were irreparably damaged.

Aways down the road, I found a blood-speckled bicycle lying on its side in a driveway. There wasn’t so much as a body nearby, but there were some bloody footprints that led up the drive. I assume the bicyclist went on up there in search of a live meal. It sure wasn’t around to cause me any trouble.

I rode for hours. I heard things: gunshots and explosions; twisted metal and screeching tires; panicked cries and bloodthirsty groans. The world smelled scorched, as well; burning fields and shrubs and homes. Around the wrecks, everything was encased in a heavy coat of burnt rubber and oil and flesh – along with the sickly smell of rot and decay.

Eventually, the sun began to set. My body was beat, my mind was mush. The bike was strong and sturdy, but I felt like a three-ring act gone wrong. And so I rode out a long driveway to a deserted property and took refuge upon the roof. I dared not enter the home for fear of finding comfort or death. At the time, I was wary of anything that might lead to a false sense of security – rightfully so.

No rain came that night, and neither did the zombies.

After bedding down for the night, my dreams were once again filled with prophetic visions of a disturbing nature. But these were not filled with an unknown foursome. In these loosely interconnected dreams was a religious cleric of some sort. The actual religion of this cleric is still a mystery to me, though I have a hunch this that the cleric in these dreams manifested himself as an eccentric priest whom I would meet only days later. But I’ll get to him in due time. Besides, this supposed manifestation was clearly a psychological trick; my subconscious undoubtedly connected the priest to these dreams after so recently having conjured up similar images of a prophetic cleric. (And the priest I would meet was definitely the self-proclaimed prophetic type.)

The next day was a bear. I awoke, cold and troubled, a good while after sunrise and in the very position in which I had fallen asleep. The sky threatened rain, though none would fall until darkness crept over the landscape. But the temperature rose a fair degree and most of my travels were probably made easier for this.

I began the day by weaving my way from road to road, blindly traveling in a generally eastward direction. And save for the occasional wreck, which I always skirted so easily with the mountain bike, my travels that morning were mostly uninterrupted. I say “mostly” because I did have a couple near run-ins with zombies, but none too dire. They were slow and I was swift and silent. It was this very morning that I declared my love for bicycles. The pedaling would become difficult after extended rides, but it’s near silence allowed me to slip through infested areas with hardly a glance from would-be aggressors. Naturally, though, if I rode too near a horde, one or two would take note of my presence and thereafter alert the rest with howls and groans. Instances like this were the only occasions for my near run-ins.

Well, there was one other incident which almost became bad for my health. But this was not on the open road; out on the open road, all I had to do was pedal away. Inside the confines of a minimart, escape is not so easy to come by. And I would not have had to resort to entering such an establishment if it hadn’t been for my poor rations that day. After all, I hadn’t exactly been prepared to leave the Lawless property on such short notice. And you can bet your ass I expended every future effort to keep from being so desperately short on rations again. (Though, on isolated occasion over the years, I still found myself underprepared at times – like now, without food, in a cabin on a blizzard-beaten mountainside. Though, there are some extremely extenuating circumstances that landed me in this predicament.)

My proximity to a fairly sizeable population upped the chances of this undesirable minimart encounter. After weighing my options, as I understood them at the time, I decided to roll the dice. Desperation aided in my decision. I made my way to the rear of the building without being spotted. And then, after nearly an hour of uneventful surveillance, I slunk around front and entered through the unlocked double doors there. I was making out like a bandit; my backpack bulged with breakfast bars and cans of protein-packed soups and bottles of water and canned coffee drinks. I also snagged some lighters and maps and a notebook that I’d use for fire starters in the coming weeks. And then, as an afterthought, I fetched a can of lubricant (for the bicycle chain) and some bandages (for any possible wounds I might incur). The store did not carry a pump, so I just prayed that I wouldn’t pop a tire any time soon.

And I didn’t (thank the Universe! – or whatever god you pray to).

The incident occurred when, feeling brazen, I went into the back office. I’m not even sure what I was looking for. But I know what I found, and it was most definitely not what I was looking for. A freshly turned zombie in a gas station attendant’s garb was munching on the lifeless corpse of a fellow fallen employee. The muncher was a young male, Korean from the looks; the munchee was a slightly overweight, older blonde lady. I nearly stumbled over them when I circled around the desk.

Instead, I tripped over my own feet and crashed into a merchandise rack. I barely caught hold of a shelf and steadied myself. (I probably wouldn’t be here writing these memoirs today if I hadn’t caught myself in time…) As it were, the zombie was already at my ankle, tugging hungrily at my pant-leg. Heart racing, I kicked free of its tight grip and pulled my staff from its home on my back. It was still speckled with the blood of a multitude of zombies – and maybe a bit of the Lawlesses, as well. And in three swift swings, it was absolutely drenched in blood.

The remainder of this day was a bear due solely to the miles. Shortly after leaving the minimart in the dust, I ran across a gruesome scene. A ringed barricade of vehicles had been breached and all the militants were lying dead and full of bullets. Their bodies littered the interior and exterior of the barricade. Riding a bicycle as I was, the scene was all too real – or surreal – and far too close for comfort. I guess, then, that it would be safe to say that this exacerbated the bear of a day. So maybe it wasn’t solely due to the miles…

I left the gruesome scene without stopping for a closer inspection. I’d already seen more than I wished. I was winding my way down gravel roads of the forest only minutes later. Fresh tracks – duel treads of a large vehicle – and the faint scent of exhaust told me that someone had been through this area not long before me. I never found this phantom vehicle or its crew.

When the sky drained of its color, I found a clearing and climbed a tree. I fell asleep a short time later while eating a bag of trail mix. I later found that this bag of trail mix had fallen in my sleep and scattered about the clearing below. I’m sure it was scavenged by a squirrel or bird – though, I have no way of knowing this for sure.

So I must say goodnight, now…my fingers no longer want to cooperate. So it must be time for sleep. Hopefully I’ll survive the night. Guess we won’t know unless you find more writings…if you found them at all…

Adieu…again…

The open road...

  Entry 005:

 

I have no idea how long I’ve been here any longer. Ever since the blizzard resumed its assault of my cabin, I’ve lost all feel for time. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I eat, and sometimes I pace in a feeble attempt at staying warm. I don’t dare go outside, so my excrement has started to mold and fester in and around the overflowing toilet. I’m afraid to go back into the closet of a bathroom for any reason. I think my bladder might explode and poison my bloodstream. I wonder if I’ll come back as one of them if I should die in such a fashion? Hmmm…probably not.

Also, I’m down to my last slivers of food. Quite literally: I have two slivers of meat, roughly four inches long apiece, and neither of which is wider than my slender pinky. If the blizzard doesn’t let up soon, I may be forced to die of starvation – or resort to autocannibalism. Neither prospect sounds very pleasant.

I’ve resorted to dismantling more of the scant furniture for firewood. I don’t even sit on the couch anymore; I sit on the cushions while the frame is awaiting further annihilation. But the flame hardly warms the place, it’s so small anymore. So I’ve taken to curling into a ball by the fireplace and angling the raggedy blanket like a parachute to catch as much heat as possible. It doesn’t work so well. But at least I have a source of heat to melt the snow. It works quite well for that. Though, the water refreezes rather quickly when taken away from the flame. It’s a wonder I haven’t frozen yet.

I’ve never remained indoors for such an extended period of time. Everything drags. The daylight, though short by the season, drags on forever. The darkness at night, though, lasts an eternity beyond that. The nights seem endless, and I expect to expire with each night that passes. But somehow I don’t. I’m not sure if this is a miracle or a hellish purgatory as I await judgment by the Universe (or by whatever god that runs this Universe). Maybe I have expired, and all that I now experience is just a perceived eternity that’s riding the coattails of my brain’s final electrical firings. This seems quite unlikely, though, as all my senses are still in fine working order. At the moment, this is quite unfortunate, since most of my sensory input has become quite unpleasant as of late.

And because I do believe I’m still alive and “well” in this pitiful cabin, I guess I shall continue the story of how I came to be where I am…

I had just left the home of Mister and Missus Roger Lawless, the perfect on paper couple that had decidedly imploded over time. And now, the residence of the Lawlesses was overrun by flaming ghouls that were burning the place down by simply walking indoors. Roger had killed his lovely wife, a woman with whom I had been intimate. And he had tried to kill me as well, but I bested him at his own game, and subsequently beset his home with these flaming ghouls. I was gazing back at the house when Daisy Jane’s damnable luxury car decided to take control once again.

The brakes locked up, the tires squealed. I tried to goose it and spin the wheel, which only sent me into a spin that I was not able to handle with my lacking skills. The rear bumper clipped a ghoul before slamming into a stalled sports car. The impact sent me skidding across both lanes and backwards into the roadside culvert. Zombies were all around me. I tried the gas, but the wheels just spun on the damp earth.

One of the ghouls crashed into the passenger door. Another neared the driver’s side. When it was a couple steps away, I flung open my door, knocking it back onto its ass. I grabbed my things and raced around its groping arms, circling up onto the road.

I hadn’t even made it a quarter mile from the damn property entrance before I wrecked! What a doof! Technology be-damned! And in this quarter mile (or less) there were probably a hundred scattered zombies. I’m still impressed with my skills at evading and attacking during my escape. The entire passage is a haze of dips and dives and lunges – my whirling staff, the spilt brains, the reaching, bloody hands were all just a blur in my vision as I raced through their ranks. I must have killed an army of them in my escape.

Eventually, their numbers thinned and I was no longer braining one after another. When I was free of any immediate pursuit, I leaned against a tree, panting. My staff was bloody and chipped, but held its general shape quite well. (Props to bamboo.) I wiped the chunks of graymatter onto a nearby fern. The remaining stains would have to wait for a greater respite; a number of ghouls were still on my trail. My rest only lasted a few minutes.

When I could breathe with some normality again, I resumed my journey down this oddly deserted, yet gruesomely packed, stretch of rural road. I kept to the middle as much as possible, scuttling quickly around any obstacles. (I’m also sure that my knuckles were stark white from gripping the staff so tightly, though, at the time, I was not conscious of this.) Alternating between a slow jog and brisk walk, I lost my pursuers in less than a mile. I kept this alternating pace for another mile or so after losing them, mindful all the while of remaining silent (i.e. not allowing my long feet to audibly slap the still-damp pavement).

I may have been fit at the time, but two miles was still a good jaunt, even at relatively low speeds. So I stopped for a breather, leaning against another tree. But I was quickly driven off by yet another zombie. Damn things were everywhere! How’d it spread so fucking fast? (That, I still don’t know for sure…) Being as it was just one ghoul, I started off at a brisk walk. It tripped after me, falling into a culvert. I shook my head, saddened by the diminished, if not non-existent, observational skills of the infected. (One must remember that, at the time, I was still learning the true scope of the disease’s effects on its victims.)

Eventually, I found the end of the road; it came to a T-intersection. I was far too exhausted to make up my mind right then and there. And the grove across the street looked awfully tempting. So, for whatever imaginable reason, I decided to tromp through the foliage and climb an expansive Aspen. The limbs were plentiful, and I easily found a suitable cradle in which I could rest my travel-weary body. And it was there that I slept for a short time.

 

The night has come, and I cannot feel my fingers any longer. Perhaps I will freeze tonight…If so, then my tale will go verily untold. I hope this is not the case, for these scribblings of mine are all that keep me sane. Although, I probably won’t care about my sanity if I freeze to death tonight…

Anyhow, farewell for now – and hopefully not forever.