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.