Zomblog II (7 page)

Jonathan only made things worse. I mentioned my potato craving, and this afternoon he came back from his daily patrol around the perimeter with a can of white potatoes. He said he looked for regular potatoes in a few houses nearby, but they’d all gone bad. Still, it was such a sweet gesture. Then, for no reason at all…I started crying. How crazy is that? Anyways, even from a can, those were the best potatoes I’ve ever tasted…but I didn’t have the heart to say that it just didn’t quite do it. It was like having an itch between your shoulder blades and scratching all around the edges.

I will say that we have eaten rather well these past few days. I guess there is a high school nearby that had some sort of agricultural program. Jonathan says that there is a greenhouse running off of solar panels. While some of the stuff has died, we feasted on tomatoes, carrots, and squash all cooked in foil over an open fire with fresh basil and garlic. It was wonderful…but I still want a baked potato.

Wednesday, December 10

We have decided to cut through the residential area rather than stick to the interstate. Last night we watched from the roof as a swarm of motorcycles roared past heading east. We can hide better moving through yards. While that also means more hiding places for zombies…it appears to be the best plan.

Thursday, December 11

This is insanity on a whole new level. We made it a few miles today. We are on the Portland version of the Mason-Dixon Line, across the street from what I think used to be a park on the corner of East Burnside and 39
^th
Avenue. On one side of Burnside it is Northeast 39
^th
, on the other was Southeast 39
^th
. We are in one of the few places not torched in this neighborhood. It looks like the government tried to erect a hasty encampment here.

The dead have been a bit thick. We’ve had to duck, dodge, and double-back all day. I can’t imagine what happened here. There are so many bodies. And even worse, partial bodies. If forced to guess, I would say that whomever was in charge of this fight tried to use large scale weaponry here. The type that makes a big bang. Only, you can actually separate a zombie’s head from its body and that head will still be active; sorta like a rattlesnake. Just because you lop the head off doesn’t mean the venom in its fangs won’t getcha.

We’ve run across a lot of upper-bodies—and even just the heads—of zombies today. It is like walking through a minefield. It almost cost us Jenifer.

Coach and Jonathan were leading. We had left the interstate behind just after a lunch of rice, beans, and canned apricots. (The interstate seems to become exponentially more congested on both sides the closer we get to downtown.) Anyways, we had to climb this hill and scale a fence which put us at the terminal end of a dead-end street. We decided that backyards were our best route. Staying on the street was asking for attention. The hard part was climbing fence after fence of varying types. Every time we crossed a yard, we had to keep an eye on the house. If a zombie was inside and saw you, it would start pounding on the window, which will just about scare the piss out of you—literally—when one catches you by surprise and breaks the silence with an open-handed slap on glass. Once we crossed the yard, we’d have to scout the next one. Then Jonathan would lift Coach over. Jenifer and I took turns being next. Jonathan always came over last. I’ll tell ya something, after a few hours of that, you are tired and sore.

We started seeing heavily damaged or burned houses around 40
^th
Avenue. Keep in mind that all the yards are overgrown; knee-to-thigh-high in some places. We were crossing one, actually crouching low because most of the house was gone and we could easily see the street and front yard through the sections of burned out and missing walls. There was a stretch of four yards that had no real fencing left, so it was a lot of open area. We were so busy watching for anything that might wander past out front and see us that we missed one.

It was only the head and a section of the torso that included the right arm. It was burned beyond the ability to identify it as male or female. Both its eyes had burst and were part of the thick, dried, scaly coating on its face. There wasn’t enough “body” remaining for it to even have any ribs left.

The hand snagged Jenifer’s foot, tripping her. She shrieked as she fell. I heard moans in instant response. Coach started growling, but just that fast, they were coming from everywhere. Fortunately, Jenifer was wearing steel-toed leather boots. This thing bit down on the top of her foot with its jagged, broken teeth, but it did little more than put a few divots in the black surface. With her free foot, she kicked the thing in the forehead a few times to knock it loose.

I brought my spear up and drove it through the eye socket of one of the first ghouls to emerge from the burnt wreckage of the house. I could see one of those bastards appearing to literally come out of the woodwork. I did have a moment to appreciate how Coach and Jonathan work as a team. The dog darts in snarling and snapping his jaws, which never failed to get the intended target to bend down and reach for the pesky pooch. That is when Jonathan brings the Wedge-o-matic (what
he
calls it by the way) down hard into the back of the zombie’s head. This usually drops whatever is struck. Sometimes a second or third swing is needed. Jonathan says that the back of the skull is actually much easier to break than the front. Who knew?

Jenifer had dispatched her abomination; she and I were making for the fence when the first explosion came. A black pillar of smoke rose—about three blocks away—from back the way we’d come. The good news was that most of those things headed in the direction of the new sound. The bad news is that some unknown brand of nutjob was close by and blowing things up.

We could see a mostly intact home one yard over and one back through the overgrown yard we were climbing the fence to get to. I decided to head for it. Two more explosions rocked the ground a bit. I could hear some of the burned and less stable remnants of houses crumble, along with a chorus of moans from every direction. Whoever this mad-bomber was, he or she was stirring up an undead hornet’s nest.

I went first, with Jenifer on my heels after Jonathan had handed Coach over to her. He took a couple of the more persistent monsters out before vaulting the fence to follow us…show-off. Let him try it being close to six months pregnant. We cut across and, in the same order, climbed the other fence. I felt a little comfort in that the explosions—three more—were now moving away from us.

It was Jonathan who noticed that there was a definite swathe of grass that looked to have been recently trampled. We were all still pretty much on “alert” status. With me taking point, and Coach at my side, I moved towards the house. There was a large deck that held a hot tub and a rusting metal frame that probably used to be a porch swing. The sliding glass door was broken, shards of glass visible mostly just inside what looked like a dining room, which means something probably broke in and got whomever had been hiding out inside.

I had no plans of going inside the house. My objective was the debris-filled cement stairs that led down to the basement. Once I was close I could see a couple of small windows just above ground level...way too small for anything to climb through. It was getting dark, a mad-bomber was blowing up the neighborhood, and zombies were coming out from everywhere. We needed a place to spend the night. That basement seemed the logical choice.

I had to poke around at the bottom of the stairwell because the dead leaves and garbage was deep enough to conceal a head. It was clear, so I stepped down and tried the door—a sturdy, solid wood-type without any windows—which was locked. By now, Jonathan and Jenifer had caught up and Jonathan was pointing out that the trampled grass came from out front and to the stairs that led up to the deck from the yard. I didn’t really care. Loafers, zombies, survivors like us, whack jobs like The Genesis Brotherhood, nothing was moving inside the house that we could see or hear, and this house was one of the few that didn’t look like it would cave in if a swift breeze blew.

After a little “conversation” I was able to convince the other two that this would be our best option for the night. Jonathan had me step aside. He can pick locks. Who knew? Just as he opened the door a crack…a sound drifted from the other side that made my hair stand on end along my arms and the back of my neck.

A baby’s cry.

Each of us made eye contact and readied ourselves. Jonathan threw open the door and stepped aside. We all expected Coach to bolt in growling and snarling. Instead, the stupid dog’s tail starts wagging and he bounds in with what I can best describe as a playful woof.

The three of them were huddled in a corner of the mostly wide open basement. A few chairs and a sofa were the only furniture. There were more of those small windows on the other walls, a few on the side farthest from us had the “curtains” open; by curtains, I mean towels hung from hooks. There was enough light to see them. A man, woman, and…a baby.

The man was holding a three-foot long pipe wrench. The woman was holding the baby. That is how we’ve come to meet Victor Pierce, Lynn Huffman, and Adam.

Friday, December 12

“
The Genesis Brotherhood sucks!” Details at 11. I am taking a personal dislike to that bunch. The more I learn, the more I am prepared to make it my new life’s mission to eliminate each and every single one of them.

Victor is a former member.

After spending a day with Victor, Lynn, and Adam, I have a better picture of what the local scene is like. I also know where The Genesis Brotherhood is entrenched. Now we just have to process everything, sort it out, and plan.

In a nutshell, we are smack dab in the middle of a warzone. There are dozens of factions—or tribes—scattered in about a twenty mile radius of Portland. Apparently they spend as much, if not more time, fighting each other as they do the undead. Over half the groups treat women as a commodity! It didn’t take long for us to plummet through the dark ages.

The Genesis Brotherhood is simply one such band. Their distinguishing mark is that they hide behind religion…or their slant on it in any case. I am in no condition to wage a war on them…but I won’t be pregnant forever. Now, more than ever, I am determined to get to Sam’s old complex and have this baby. Then…The Genesis Brotherhood will discover why that old saying exists. You know the one: “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn.”

Saturday, December 13

I’m trying my best to like Victor Pierce. I am having a really hard time with the fact that this forty-four-year-old man who used to drive a city bus joined up with a pack of sexist degenerates, and “found the err of his ways” after supposedly falling in love with the twenty-year-old girl he knocked up. A girl he considered property at one time.

Today he took a few steps towards my good graces. We hadn’t left this basement in a couple of days and things outside actually seemed quiet. Water was becoming a small concern. After a little discussion, he offered to go out with me on a small foraging run. All we absolutely had to find was a water source. We’re actually surprisingly well off in the food department

A grocery store—mostly sacked and burned out—provided us a little treasure. We found two undamaged water-filtration pitchers and a dozen of the filter-cartridges. I had argued against finding anything of value, but Victor has been reading Sam’s and my entries. He reasoned that most of the looters have been after food and weapons and more obvious supply staples.

The biggest problem was all the dark shadowy places for things to hide in. It was in one of these spots that what had once been a child of no older than seven crept out and up behind me. So much of its face had been torn off…along with both hands. The bones jutting out from both stumps would’ve plunged into my back if Victor hadn’t come around the corner to tell me he had found the pitchers and filters. Luck is a funny thing. One more second and…

I can’t believe that thing snuck up on me. And just what was I doing? Rummaging through a jumble of moldy, useless, partially melted containers of powdered baby formula. More impressive was how Victor took down my would-be assailant…he threw a hand-axe from about twenty feet away. It seems his hobby was competing in lumberjack games at the state Timber Carnival.

It takes all kinds.

Sunday, December 14

I don’t get women with the mentality of Lynn Huffman. She is everything that perpetuates the damsel-in-distress stereotype. Lynn is what men would call an “exotic” beauty. She has olive-toned skin, wavy black hair, and hazel eyes that almost look fake they’re so bright. She is curvy, and even after having given birth a mere two months ago, she has one of
those
types of bodies that used to give men whiplash when she walked past. Other than that…she’s useless.

Even Jonathan commented on her total dependence on Victor. So I get how women like her end up in the hands of groups like The Brotherhood, but Dominique’s flip has me puzzled. First, she’s a child. According to Jenifer, she didn’t just give up when they were initially captured, and it seems that her virginity was not surrendered willingly. So how did they brainwash her so quickly and completely?