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…