Fields of Rot (3 page)

James thanks all this writing will lead to nothing, that I’m wasting my time. Perhaps, but if there is anyone out there, then maybe all of this will prove useful, then again, maybe it won’t matter after all. I’m not so sure anymore, and James is actually contemplating detonating canister of gas next to the door to free the poor son-of-a-bitch.

Entry Eighteen, 12/29/14

We barely made it back before nightfall, fighting through a cluster of dead things with the light of a fading sun. The city lights haven’t turned on today… More importantly, James didn’t make it back. I wanted to go back and save him, pay him back for all of those other times, but the situation wouldn’t allow it. After he set off the explosives the industrial door shattered, but so did part of the catwalk we were on, creating quite a pit for the other to traverse. The man entrapped leapt across, meeting up with us as we headed towards a window in our effort to flee before the zombies ascended to our level. I can’t say exactly what happened, but I can guess it had something to do with the blazing dead wandering around, crawling near extremely flammable areas. Another explosion erupted, taking out a huge chunk of the grated floor, leaving James with an impossible leap.

He went for it, of course he would, but my hands couldn’t reach. He fell, dropping a few stories before rolling along the ground for cover. He attacked wildly with his bass guitar and demanded for us to leave without him.

The man we saved was armed with a submachine gun, and was dedicated to his aim. He had enough ammo to drop the walkers along our path but not enough to save James? I knew trusting her would lead to nothing. This ex-military badass might be a living example of two great action heroes Chuck Norris, and Jack Bauer, but his lack of consideration prevents me from liking him. I only followed because I agreed with him during the moment, but now, as I recall the events, I would’ve rather pushed the fucker into the savage fray.

The two worthless assholes appear to have some sort of connection, nothing amazing, nothing even worth fighting for. They share a bag of stale chips while I sit in solitude at the other end of the store. They’ve already attempted to question me, but I couldn’t work up the effort to talk to them. The very sight of them pissed me off.

That Jack Norris fucker might have a stash of weapons, but he will find it impossible to talk me out of my rations.

Sorry, James Mustang. Sorry I never had the chance to hear you play. Sorry I never took you seriously.

Entry Nineteen, 12/30/14

New year’s eve. The morning started with beautiful break of day, peering out from behind the remains of a small town swimming with a growing mass of walking rot. The hungry, deathly moans hummed in my ear; funny how I became used to it. Perhaps habituation is starting to kick in, or maybe I’m distracted by the alarming curiosity of the other two.

I didn’t sleep at all, not willing to risk a slit neck by the hands of those savages. Grace and Jack watched me all night long. They whispered amongst each other, trying to keep their plan a secret, but Grace kept nodding my way. I knew they were brewing something, and I didn’t have time for any more bullshit. I held on to my thoughts the best I could, redirecting them back to my self-assigned mission. The task sounded simple at first, but now with James gone and an increase of strange, nightmarish activity, my doubt grew.

The two had the nerve to probe me for answers. Jack even raised his gun at me, while Grace threatened me with a bloody machete. I told them only what they needed to know: that I was searching for a way to stop all of this madness. They laughed. Of course they laughed. I wouldn’t expect a reasonable reaction from those dull minded fools. Jack stated there was no fixing of anything, and Grace just continued to laugh, teasing me with her disbelief.

James, I am sorry. But I couldn’t stand the feeling of being misunderstood any longer. It crawled beneath me, tainting my mind with its corrosive vile. Defensively, I told them everything. I shared with them various details about my blog, my journal, personal findings, and the mission.

Jack became resistant. He refused to believe and threatened me by gunpoint not to say another word. He refrained from killing me and taking my supplies when he had the chance. Grace didn’t seem all too concerned about anything, lost in her own thoughts. He could’ve blasted my brains across the wall, but he released me and devised a plan that I couldn’t agree more with.

I’m suspicious for as to the reason, but Jack was convinced that we needed to move to another location, something about this area being compromised even though it wasn’t. I’ve decided to follow them. They were willing to incorporate me, but I still refuse to trust them.

He laughed, once again, when I suggest that we should look for James. He claimed that no man could survive that.

Entry Twenty, 1/1/15

So much to write about. I never thought I the feeling of sadness would find me, but then again, I think I’ve been avoiding it for quite a while. It isn’t simply just this living Hell that I find myself in, it is a combination of life experiences recollected as a central feeling of extreme weakness infected me. My thoughts are drifting; the images of my father invade, taking me to those wasted years. I can’t help but to recall the moment with my father where I felt so afraid, so helpless. A family vacation promised a beautiful view and a pleasant time, but I was petrified of the water because of an insignificant and completely trivial matter. Something as small as a pinch somehow cursed me to fear stepping foot into the tide. My dad, so patient and yet slightly annoyed, tried to help, but I simply didn’t listen. I stayed inside for the rest of the trip, entertaining myself with crap TV and misery.

When I think about how much we have lost so far. The mass carnage, the lawlessness of this land, it seems like my parents may never actually return. I stayed while they went on another yearend vacation, and I wonder if I made the right choice. They could be sipping on margaritas down in the tropics right now, while their son fought for his life in a zombie wasteland.

The thoughts washed over me all of a sudden during a moment where I needed to be on my game. We crossed the street, ran like hell as a swarm chased after us, and cleared a nook just above a few dumpsters for an advantage point. I was supposed to supply the cover fire as the rotting fiends climbed to the top of the dumpster. Then it came, the feeling entered as if it had always been there and rattled my nerves. My aim became lazy. My motivation became a matter of question, and I felt as if I was a stranger in my own body viewing the scene as if it was a movie.

My arm stopped pumping rounds into the chamber for just one tiny moment, but it was enough for a zombie to make it to the top. The blood crazed eyes stared at me as it lunged for me. I simply stood in place, watching as a burst of blood erupted from the side of its head, as chunks of gunk sprayed about.

The sound of Jack’s gun shook me out from my sudden stupor. I followed him along the ledge to a wide window that led to a decommissioned facility.

Except with the moans from outside, it is quiet. Very quiet. I swear I can hear something bang several floors below us, but Jack and Grace think I’m trying to scare them. Like I would take pleasure in scaring them when I am already afraid myself. I’m afraid of what lurks below, but I’m more afraid of freezing like that again. I don’t want to owe Jack a damn thing, not a single fucking thing.

I still can’t help the thoughts. They storm into my mind, lingering with a depressing, heavy presence. I miss my family. I miss my friends, but most importantly, I miss my old life. Why can’t it just go back? Why can’t things just stop?

Grace appears just as lost as I am, whereas Jack seems completely collected. Lucky, son-of-a-bitch. I wish I had that. I wish I could return to not giving a shit. I wish I could.

The sound from below gradually increased, finally grabbing their attention. Grace freaked out and huddled in a corner, while Jack quickly began barricading the door. He requested for some assistance, but Grace was too worked up and I didn’t want to turn this room into more of a trap than it already was. I offered my opinion, but he refused the moment I revealed my opposition.

I hope that my parents are okay. I hope I can prevent this pessimism from overgrowing into complete depression.

Entry Twenty-One, 1/3/15

I might have enough time to jot this down, but I’m not too sure. The sounds heard earlier were not the product of a zombie, a cluster of zombies, or a whole goddamn army of rotting fiends. No, the sound below was the product of one single monstrous entity that made running through a throng of zombies look safe. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know where to begin to describe it other than the skeleton that hung over his shoulders. The colossal was double the size of James Mustang, wore dark rags, and a shattered welding mask of some sort obscured his face.

The most important thing to know, those that read this after I die, is that the skeleton is not of anything from this Earth, unless giants really did once roam the world. He uses it as a weapon, a giant battering ram that does insane amount of damage. It stressed the pavement into craters. It crushed through the boxes, shattered anything wooden, and shook on each collision.

It found us, and trashed the barricades in a matter of seconds. Jack sprayed the thing in the face with this submachine gun and received no noticeable impact. The giant creature knocked Jack away, throwing him to smack against a wall. Grace, frozen in fear, just stared at the monstrosity as it approached. I still don’t trust her, but I couldn’t watch her die, either. I pulled her away from the corner and skimmed by the creature too fast for it to catch us. I stopped to take a shot, and Grace ran to Jack to check up on him.

I unloaded on the thing, and then came the violent counter attacks. Without any end in sight, the monstrosity swung the skeleton around, thrashing through everything in the room. The supporting beams were hit, and our escape took a sudden turn for the worse. When the grated floor collapsed so did we, and the thing leapt down for the kill.

It finally reacted. It stretched out its arms, lifted its chin, and screamed in pain. The monster could feel and bleed, so then he could surely die. The monster turned quickly, knocking away the unknown assailant, and returned for us. The crawl space was cut-off by collapsed material. We were like fish in a barrel as the monster swung down forcefully with his skeletal weapon. The ground around us shook, shattered fragments of metal flung in the air, while smoke rose from the increasing flames. The attacks missed us, protected by a simple piece of metal that his brutal attacks couldn’t seem to hit.

Jack fired a few rounds, nearly grazing me as a consequence. I covered my face as the sounds echoed around me, wreaking my eardrums as I felt my body vibrate to each and every enclosing attack. We were all coughing, wheezing, and struggling for air from all the smoke.

The monster readied itself for another downward thrust--one that promised to shatter through our cover and send us to an early grave—but as it did, something knocked it from the side. The monster screamed as it fell victim to the powerful swing as it dug into his side. The monster turned to react, but the assailant defeated him with a direct hit to the head.

Drenched in blood, armed with a modified bass guitar, James Mustang stood prideful. He reached out for my hand, pulling me out from the suffocating space. He offered a saving hand for Grace, who he hugged as if she already meant something to him. Jack, despite what I knew, received a helpful hand and a thankful rub on the shoulder.

We were fortunate that James Mustang hadn’t died. At least, one of us should have been kissing his feet, but Jack simply said his thanks and tried to move on from it. I pondered then what I ponder now, should I say anything about what happened? Would it matter? I wanted too, and James Mustang saw my worry, but he for some reason associated it to the modification he did to his bass. With pieces of scrap metal grafted to the body, the guitar was now literally an axe. James smiled as he talked about how he managed to find the pieces after surviving that unfortunate moment. He talked the most that night as we waited through the night on a high floor.

James has defied the odds somehow. I hope that luck will stay around when we finally reach the Hell Gate, assuming we’re even going in the right direction.

Entry Twenty-Three, 1/6/15

The walks during the day are become more risky. The streets were once crossable, but now the chance of slipping without detection is minimal, at best. To sum up the situation, the gorge we are required to cross is filled, literally filled, with walkers. Some standing around lazily, lumbering about whenever they catch a whiff of something. Some are crawling along the rough terrain, while others are fighting over rodents. God, this area is fucking rank. The stench of spoiled meat lingers in the air stronger than ever only to increase as the dead begin to populate the gorge even more. I’m not sure where they come from or how they rise, but it appears as if they just happen to spawn. If the dead are spawning from Hell, then what happens when you send them back?

I don’t want to know the answer just yet. Good news, James tried his crappy cell phone to discover that the lines are finally clear. He can dial out to the groupies he will never see again, hurray. But while James tries his contacts for any answer, I ponder the dreaded thought that perhaps the lines are free because no one is calling anymore. No sudden panic to bog the lines would mean the worse for us. Good news, we’re alone and this area seems to have become a battlefield for those that survive thus far. I think I’ll take the bad news instead. We’re fucked. Completely fucked. James can’t get a single person to answer their phones. Leaving voice mails, the heavy metal rocker somehow ignored the fact that we still needed to find a way cross the gorge since the bridge was blown to pieces.