Zomblog: Snoe's Journey Read online

  “You shouldn’t have gone alone,” Rindy snapped, cutting him off. “Is this supposed to make Christmas better? You going off and getting yourself killed to bring us things?”

  Ryan hung his head, instantly taking the steam out of her anger. “I just wanted everybody to have something special,” he rasped.

  “And so your present to me is…what?” Rindy waved her machete in the air and pointed it at his injured arm. “I get to watch you die, then put you down?”

  “Jesus, kid.” Ryan looked up.

  “I’m not a kid,” Rindy snapped back.

  “Well maybe you should try it every once in a while,” Ryan said with a warm smile. “That’s why I did this.” He shook the pack that Rindy still hadn’t taken from him. “It makes me sad to see somebody so young…who never had the chance to be a teenager…act like a freakin’ soldier. And the way Amber looks up to you…well…I just wanted her to have a moment of childhood before you turn her into a Rindy action figure.

  “I just wanted to give her a Christmas morning, one last visit from Santa Claus before she’s drafted into your army.” Ryan slumped and the pack fell from his hand.

  He seemed to melt as he slowly sunk to the ground. He lay still for a moment. Rindy grabbed the pack and removed it from between her and Ryan. Her eyes stayed fixed on the prone figure in the mud at her feet. The first sign came from the left hand: it twitched once…twice…then curled into a claw, digging furrows in the saturated earth. The head began to rise; the familiar, dry, rattling moan escaped its lips. The face that looked up at Rindy was a lifeless, slack caricature of Ryan.

  With one swing, she brought the machete down smashing through the crown of the skull with hand-numbing finality. The body collapsed to the ground as she wrenched the blade free. “There is no such thing as Santa Claus,” Rindy whispered.

  That afternoon they stood over the grave that Rindy dug by herself. She’d also dragged the body, dumped it into the hole, and covered it alone. When she was done, she went inside and gathered everybody. Penny had found a bible, and read Psalms 23. Then, each of them said something nice about Ryan and returned inside.

  That night, she and Penny wrapped the items they had found in the pack. Together, they agreed to wait a week to celebrate Christmas. It just didn’t seem right to skip it after Ryan had gone through so much to make it happen.

  The night they declared as Christmas Eve, Penny recited as much as she could recall of T’was the Night Before Christmas. She and Rindy tucked Amber in, then went downstairs and set out the rest of the presents. Penny went to bed, leaving Rindy alone in front of the tree. She sat for a while listening to the rain. With a yawn, she got up ready for a little sleep before Amber woke the house.

  Rindy Farmer peeked out from the shadowy doorway. This house had been a good find sitting all by itself on a hill looking out over a vastness that everyone was pretty sure had to be somewhere in Wyoming. A steady rain continued to fall adding to the gloom felt by everybody the past few days.

  Maybe tomorrow would help pull them out of it. Before closing the door, her eyes tried to find the outline of the marker where she buried Ryan. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered into the darkness. As expected, Amber woke everybody bright and early. Rindy rolled over, the chill in the room cold enough to turn her exasperated exhale to a visible fog.

  “Rindy!” Amber burst into the room, a ball of child-generated electricity. “Santa came! Come look!” Then the child dashed out. The sound of another door being flung open was followed by “Penny! Santa came! He came!”

  Brad stumbled into Rindy’s room. “We’d better go downstairs before she explodes,” he yawned.

  Rindy sat up and threw the covers aside. Instantly her body was pebbled with goose bumps. She looked out her window, but it was so fogged over that she couldn’t see. All that she could tell was that the sun hadn’t risen yet. The faintest hint of light was barely discernible.

  As quickly as possible, she pulled on a few layers of clothes. Finally satisfied she went out into the hallway. Amber stood at the head of the stairs dancing excitedly from one foot to the other. She was barefoot, and wearing the long flannel shirt she normally slept in.

  “C’mon, Rindy!” she pleaded, darting to her and grabbing her hand.

  Penny and Brad came in their wake as they headed down the stairs. Rindy was already trying to figure out how to get this done as quickly as possible in order to get in some hunting. Christmas or not, they needed to continue stocking up on food.

  Reaching the landing halfway down the stairs, Rindy froze. She could see outside through the giant picture window. The ground was covered in a blanket of pure white. A wave of warmth hit her, drawing her attention to the fireplace where, mysteriously, a raging fire roared. But that was only the first surprise.

  Spilled out across the floor were brightly wrapped packages complete with bows and dangling tags. Three red stockings hung from the mantle above the fireplace, giant candy canes poking from each one. Rubbing her eyes, Rindy continued down the stairs in slow, halting steps. She glanced back at Penny who was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Brad scooted past, joining Amber in the final dash towards the sea of presents.

  As Rindy reached the final steps, Amber hurried back to her, a Barbie clutched in one hand. The other hand shot out holding an envelope. “This has your name on it!” she giggled, then ran back to join her brother who was wading into the pile.

  Rindy looked down at the tiny, waxy envelope in her hand. Her name was written elaborately across the top. A picture emblazoned on the front showed a cluster of bright red strawberries. She shook the envelope, hearing the whispering rattles of the tiny seeds inside.

  “This one’s for you, too!” Brad came up to her with a package wrapped in blue foil with a silver bow. The tag that dangled from it was in the same script with her name.

  Sitting on the stairs, she opened the package to discover a beautiful black dress. Her eyes began to water a bit. She blinked to clear them and noticed something written on the back of the tag. She picked it up and read: Yes, Rindy, there is a Santa Claus.

  I think that may be one of the sweetest, saddest things that I have ever heard. I hope you don’t mind that I shared it with you.

  Epilogue

  Thursday, June 14th

  The ground is clear of snow, but there is plenty of mud. I am not sure which I like least. The progress of rebuilding the barricades around Warehouse City is going well. Betty has really stepped in and taken charge.

  It took the first several days to take care of all the bodies. We performed an elaborate ceremony with help from the Natives, complete with the fires, singing, feasting and ceremonial dancing. I did not hear any complaints.

  The people are trickling back in from all around. Many are having a tough time making eye contact. There are some who recall how I left here so long ago.

  I have spoken with Erik Greyfeather (he arrived via wagon about three weeks ago) and have agreed to come to the lands of the Confederated Tribes next spring. I can’t say if that is where I will call home, after all, this is where I was born, grew up…it is what I know.

  Many of the Native Americans will be leaving in a few weeks. They want to ensure that the mountains are at their safest. I guess it is not uncommon for a freak snowstorm to rear its head as late as May.

  I will miss having them near.

  As for me, this is my last entry, one of the librarians for Warehouse City has insisted that I give my journals over to be copied and placed in the library beside my dad’s and Meredith’s. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, but I have agreed.

  So I guess this will be our farewell. I wish that I could get to know each of you who picks this up and reads it as you have come to know me. This seems like such a one-sided relationship. And I thank you for even considering that anything I had to say was worth your time.

  So, since you are reading this and it is safe to say that enough time has passed, I guess I can admit to you here that Jimmy Stonekille
r has asked me if it would be okay for him to stay behind when the rest of the Natives return home. I told him I needed to think about it, but I already made up my mind. I am going to say “yes” to him tonight when we go for our walk.

  Also, I have been bursting at the seams since Betty told me, maybe if I write it down, it will ease my desire to blurt it out.

  Betty is pregnant. I will be Aunty Snoe!

  And last, we have received word from a delegation from the former leading faction of the NAA before Dominique assassinated their president. They were a little late to the party with their offer to help us defeat “this unsettling rebellion”. However, both sides will be meeting, along with a contingent from the tribes along Corridor 26, Freetown, the Native Americans, and some large community from Alaska. It looks like we will be forming some sort of North American Defense League. One of the first orders of business is to actually open our borders and get some transit between the communities.

  It will no doubt run in to some snags...but guess what! They didn’t ask me to be a part of any of it! Well, Jimmy will be knocking on my door soon, likely hoping for an answer. Time to go…I guess this is farewell.

  And from the

  Zomblog universe…

  Submitted from the field by correspondent Joshua Macer

  Sunset Fortress Colony—You know, you would think that writing about your past would be easy. I mean hell, come on, no one knows you better than you do right? But damn, it’s just not my thing I guess.

  Since this whole mess started, I have never really jumped on the bandwagon with the whole journal thing. I know, I know, with Sam and Meredith’s (I actually met her once, long ago) books it became the thing to do for a lot of people. I just never could get into talking about my life. But hey, I am by no means knocking those who have done it religiously (and I guess I’d be a hypocrite since here I am, sitting here doing the same thing).

  I started reading their journals once, years ago. Truthfully, I couldn’t even finish reading them. I mean, these are shit times we are in, folks. I have been living in those times since the whole damn mess started, so why would I want to read about someone else living it? But I am smart enough to know that everyone needs a distraction and some form of hope, especially in these times. Those two, whether they meant to or not, became heroes to people in a time when they really needed them. And that I can truly appreciate and respect. Maybe it’s because now that I’ve grown older and I guess more internalized, as my old shrink used to say, I feel like I should at least try to leave behind a record of myself in case something happens to me. Ha, when something happens more likely.

  I am by no means a hero, but it just seems shitty to me to die and fall away into oblivion with not a soul even knowing that I had ever walked the Earth. Enough of the world’s population has passed like that since the dead rose. I have no illusions, but I at least figure that now I can write about me and have someone not read my book. Well, I guess I better start by telling you about myself.

  My name is Captain Josh M. Ross, age forty-eight, and I am the second in command of the Sunset Fortress Colony’s Escort and Expeditionary Force. I am a survivor, always been one, always will be I guess. Well, until I die that is.

  I have made my peace with death a long time ago. To anybody that might actually be reading this, the world wasn’t always so shitty. I guess I felt that it was though. Before the dead rose, I had spent ten years in the U.S Army Infantry. I did three tours to Iraq, and one tour to Afghanistan (those were rough places even before the zombies started coming to “life”). I suffered from PTSD from the things I lived through during that time (not nearly as much as I do now). I had spent so much time in combat, and had to kill so many enemies and seen so many good people die while at war that I thought I could handle anything. I thought that I had seen the worst of people and the world. It turned out that I was wrong, dead wrong. So much for thinking right?

  After getting out of the Army, I couldn’t handle being a civilian. I sure couldn’t come to grips with everything I had seen and done. I could never turn off my training. I didn’t think life could get any worse for me than what it had been. Damn, if only back then I had the slightest idea how wrong I was, I may have actually been a bit happier. All of my training and all of my skills I had acquired in the military, and I wasn’t prepared. I don’t think anyone was ready for what happened when the world turned upside down and the dead first started to rise. Who could have possibly been primed for what happened? No one knew what to think, or what to do.

  Those first days were very confusing. I had heard bits and pieces on TV and the radio about some kind of virus or something. The media was putting its spin on things telling people to stay calm and that things were under control. According to them, it was probably another new strain of the bird flu or something like that. I didn’t go out of the apartment that I rented much in those days. I spent most of my time indoors reading and avoiding people. I enjoyed the silence that my solitude brought. But all that night I sat up in my small living room and listened to the sirens in the distance and what had to be gunshots. I didn’t sleep at all that night. My PTSD was on overdrive.

  While I was eating breakfast that following morning, I watched all the news reports about those suspected of being infected going crazy and attacking people. They were acting like they were high on bath salts or something. Later that day, the president made an appearance on television and issued a nationwide curfew for dusk. Anyone spotted outside after it got dark would be shot on sight. Things got very real very quick after that. In the army, we would always bullshit about the possibilities of the zombie apocalypse and how we would survive during it. Who in the hell would have known that some of those things would actually save my neck?

  I was lucky initially. I already had a small arsenal in my possession that I had collected over the years, along with supplies in case of trouble. I was what you could call a small time “prepper”. I had the training that would help me survive in austere conditions without the burden of having been sent to the meat grinder like the majority of the armed forces did at the beginning of the undead rising. Not many soldiers survived the initial wave of the infection.

  Many survivors took to trying to loot and scavenge houses for supplies. Not me, as soon as it was apparent beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going on, I had my bug out bag ready to go along with my AR-15, three pistols, a Mossberg 500, and plenty of ammo to last a while. I headed for the main highway and away from populated areas. I figured that since most people had tried to evacuate to “safe zones” (ha, yeah right) and left their homes behind, that most of the things I would need could be found packed conveniently into their vehicles for me. That worked out wonderfully. I was often finding weapons, ammo, foodstuffs, and survival gear. I would bag and stash what supplies I could find off the highway at randomly marked points to try to keep it away from animals or other people. Every now and then, I would encounter survivors. Some were decent folks who I would help if possible. Most of them looked like scum, though, so I kept my distance. I survived living alone by myself for at least half a year.

  At first, killing zombies, especially the child ones, seemed…I don’t know…unnatural. But it eventually became very easy to stop thinking of them in terms of having once been living and more in terms of just nightmarish monsters. Screw the cold detachment the military taught me. I actually began to enjoy killing the nasty sons of bitches. My weapons of choice were, of course, my guns. Ah, I miss the hell out of guns and ammo. I found this very mean looking and sharp as hell hand-and-a-half sword that I took a liking to. Oh, and I can’t forget about my big ass machete. I still to this day call it my BAM (big ass machete, get it?). Sometimes I would get caught up in the moment and shout out “BAM!” while slicing zombie brains. Hey, I guess you guys can maybe figure out that I may not have been completely straight in the head. But all things considered, I think I did alright.

  One of my favorite finds while on my own came in the form of an RV that I stumbled ac
ross. Somehow whoever had been driving it had managed to pull it off of the road and well back into the woods. It was hidden well enough that I had passed through this area multiple times and had missed it up until now. I had always wanted my very own RV. I figured why the hell not, here is my chance.

  I drew my .45 as I crept cautiously toward the side door of the vehicle. I turned the knob on the door. Immediately the stench of death and decay assaulted my nostrils and I instinctively took a step back. I barely had time to register the huge shape framing the doorway. The shriek of a crying baby from inside froze me in my tracks. That almost got me killed. When I say the huge shape, I mean really huge. This zombie had to have weighed well over five hundred pounds when it was alive. Tattered skin hung from gashes in its fat rolls. Lurching forward to try to grab me, the behemoth toppled forward out of the door. The undead blob crashed into me, knocking me to the ground and the air out of my lungs. My pistol went flying out of my hand and underneath some brush. I will never forget the stench of that thing on top of me. Its greenish-grey mottled face stared blankly at me while its teeth clicked menacingly together in supreme effort to tear into my flesh.

  My lungs burned with the aching need for air, and my vision began to darken around the edges as I struggled to keep the thing from biting me. I was able to tuck my legs up over my stomach as much as I could and kicked as hard as I was able, but the damn thing barely budged. I kicked and kicked for what seemed like an eternity. With a grunt I pushed one last time. The undead mass reared back barely, but it was enough. I rolled out, coming unsteadily to my knees. Sucking down a deep ragged breath of air I fumbled for my machete. My hands felt like lead weights, and my head, like it was stuffed with cotton. Finally, I was able to yank it free from the leg sheath.

  I lunged awkwardly at the zombie with my machete, thrusting upwards under the zombie’s chin and into what was left of its brain. It shattered through the back of its skull, tangling in its lanky hair. Satisfied I had killed the son of a bitch for its last time, I twisted and yanked the sharp blade back out. Black viscera and brain matter oozed into a small puddle on the ground. God, these damn things stink to high hell. I hardly ever retch from the stench anymore; but, man, it never gets any easier having to smell these damn things.