January 1, 2012
I am a survivor of Reardan, a town in Eastern Washington. There are only 50 of us, all that remain of the town. We have shelter, food, and water. 4 years ago, the dead came back from their graves and sleep to plague us. Many fought, more succumed to the inevitable...
The message plays as I reach around the console of the radio station in Spokane. I set it up to loop endlessly that day, just 3 weeks ago. "When are we done," questions a voice on my walkie-talkie, "Ashley's got jambalyla on the pot tonight." "All right, just got done," I say as I shut the door carefully behind me, "Coming out Scott!" The sun is momentarily blinding as I get on my red shades.
A paper bin sits half filled with old newspaper, and the picture of Hillary for '08 brings back memories. They usually are bad, full of screaming, thrashing terror and hurried footsteps. My mind is jarred back to reality by the appearance of the van, filled with food, ammo and racks of weapons. The door is thrown open as I climb in, and then we are off. I notice that the gas tank is running a little low, so I have Scott start to pull off the on ramp and to the Shell station next to the ramp.
As I get the pumps going, a noise disturbs the silence as the bell ironicly sounds out its pleasant DING DONG sound and a man tackles me to the ground. I look up at his face, and recoil as a sunken and putrid eye stares at me with longing. He begins to strike at my now exposed neck when a soft clunk sounds, and the zombie drops suddenly with a hatchet in his skull. I scramble up as Scott wipes off the handle.
"Thanks for the save," I mutter as I berate myself for distracting myself from the here and now. "I was thinking about the past." Scott nodded as we got in the van and drove back to the Farm. The gate opens as armed guards and AI operated napalm turrets tracked the van, and the People crowded the driveway. As we are getting out, Scott is almost bowled over by my dogs, Buster and Shiver. "Hey, you miss me?" The dogs just licked his face and scampered off.
January 5, 2012
We are repairing the south wall today. Haven't heard any reports of zombies for a while. I hope our luck holds till the end of the month...I lay the pencil down and stretch the kinks out of my back. 'I REALLY need to get a posturepedic bed,' I think as I step into the kitchen. I crack open a jug of milk and guzzle the last drops. I spy the list by the fridge and write down MILK under 'Supplies to Get.' I throw open the door and step onto the soft carpet of grass that surrounds my house.
I start to get the truck out, when I hear a loud noise from the back porch. I reach for my handheld shotgun and 7 foot blade, and walk to the back porch. A squirrel scampers out of the trash cans, paper plate in paw. I laugh and stop in a cold sweat. My mind flashes grey, then the color comes back into the world. I breathe a sigh of relief and load up the truck.
I drive slowly over the broken and rubble- strewn streets, searching. I spy the Matress Outlet, with its windows broken and trash strewn about. I peer into the interior, and grimace. The matresses are all ruined, musty and mildewed beyond use. I shake my head in disgust and curse under my breath.