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…