Fields of Rot (2 page)

I encountered him during my escape, in which I ran from the backdoor of the house where I crashed at for a while. The zombies had a hard time gaining access to the backyards. The ones that did were too clumsy to avoid the many obstacles, some fell into an open pool, and many tripped over bicycles and other toys. Those that managed to lumber in my way served as target practice. Years of playing first-person shooters fooled me to think of shooting as being so simple. I scored a few head shots, but not without wasting a clip.

The noise of gunfire caused the zombies from the front to rush towards the back, and with their weight combined, they stormed through the fences. I hauled for shelter, running towards the thin patch of thick trees that bordered a ravine. I dodged them long enough, staying low and quiet, to where they directed their interest elsewhere. I was alone, on the verge of trespassing into a wide-open field that seemed too welcoming for a sudden sprint. Silence, except for the sound of rain drops pelting the tall blades of grass. It was too quiet, almost as if every distant scream had suddenly stopped. I remember the ground, the loose, moist soil. The cool swamp water soaking into my shoes, saturating my socks with its stinky muck. I dared to just run for it, to take a wild chance, but I trusted the roar of my shotgun for guidance. The barrel screamed with a violent burst, and, in an instant, the dead rose.

I ran as fast as I could, blasting away chunks of rotten torsos and limbs as the zombies swarmed around me like as if I was a fat juicy steak. Everything went to a blur as I ran for my life. My heart pounded against my chest, my lungs were desperate for air, and my muscles were too tense for their own good. I somehow managed to run inside a house for cover, and that is when I met him.

James Mustang wasn’t as happy to see me as I was him. He attacked me with his bass guitar, missing me because I dodged just in time. I still think he would like to do it again, if he had the chance. I really doubt it would’ve mattered if I died at all. He claimed to be upset that I brought along a wave of the undead, but his eyes seemed eager for a blood soaked frenzy like a Spartan was to the glory of battle. He wasn’t angry. He was like a kid on Christmas morning. He shoved away the barriers, opened the front door, and allowed the zombies to enter his demented death trap.

I still cannot believe we survived that night. We both made it through in one piece. Unfortunately, I’m down to one shell. James didn’t seem too concerned, in fact it would suffice to state that not only did he polish his bass with an evil grin, he licked their blood as if some sort of sick ritual. If the outbreak was caused by some sort of disease then I should see some sort of transformation within the next few days.

James Mustang has internet access, but I had to reset both the modem and the router several times to get some sort of connection, and once again, the service was too slow to do much of anything. I could hardly post the information about James Mustang without needing to refresh and reconnect several times.

Entry Ten, 12/18/14

The internet connection died completely before I could make my printouts. Which sucks, because I would hate to rely on the navigation app in case my cell phone were to malfunction or get damaged. Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.

From navigating the forums, and reading through the mess of feedback on my blog, I discovered something that could possibly serve as an explanation for this whole mess. Someone by the name of XxPinkM1str3ssxX uploaded a video that showed something I have never, ever seen before. Something I doubt anyone in our mortal world has ever witnessed. I fear for my sanity to actually say it, I suppose my reluctance rests primarily on the fact that if this is true than what else does it mean. If these strange, red, and pulsating phenomenons are really Hell Gates, then does that mean that I ought to pray for a fucking holy miracle?

I’ll deal with that as it unfolds, but more importantly, it is up to those that have this information to do something about it. I highly doubt that the military and other authorities will rightfully believe that Hell has surfaced. However, James became increasingly convinced, and from his very heavy metal perspective, he became increasingly antsy. He wanted to do something about the unfolding nightmare, and though I agreed with him, it was a question of how.

After the internet crashed for good, I gathered my things and informed him of my plan thus far. The only mentioned Hell Gate near here would require five days of travel if we did it by foot, and since the streets are filled with the dead, foot would be the only way to travel.

We walked for miles, spending most of the day hiking through fields until we came to a storage center just before nightfall. James is a difficult person to talk to, despite the fact that Hell has risen and we ought to work together, he threw a fit when I pestered him about his past. I am alone as I write this, sitting on an old ice chest stuffed with hot beer. The electricity still works, which is fortunate for my cell phone and laptop, but the news streaming from an old stereo isn’t anything to sleep to.

Chatter from a radio talk show reveals that something much menacing lurks in the region, walking among the dead. I hope to get more information, as soon as I can, but my cell phone’s browser isn’t responding so well at the moment, and there is no WiFi in the area to speak of. All I can do is wait patiently for morning to come, while trying to stay as quiet as possible.

Entry Eleven, 12/22/14

I’ve managed to calm myself just enough to write this entry, but I’m still mad as fucking Hell. The two things I needed more than anything to sort through this fucking mess are gone. Imagine, shit hits the fan and people resort to petty theft within the first few days. Without my laptop I doubt I’ll ever find out what I’m supposed to do when I find this Hell Gate. Jesus F’n Christ! Without my cell phone for navigation, we’ll be wandering in circles trying to survive in this godforsaken nightmare.

I found James, again. I sort of owe it to him to drop my previous comments regarding his character. I found him a few paces away from the garage where I stayed, and we were about to discuss some very important matters when an onslaught of zombies overcame us. I ran, cornered, and forced to fight them off with my bare hands. I fended for myself, knocking them away, pushing the decaying bodies far enough to make for a few feet. They eventually caught up, tackling me, one of them chomped on my thigh, digging its fractured canines though my pants and into my skin. Suddenly, I became my very own test subject. I kicked wildly, and shot out for the small opening of freedom. Using a chunk of rotten wood as a weapon, I fought the hungry savages off and climbed a fence leading to a densely wooded area.

Bleeding from my leg, limping from the pain, and breathing heavily, I can see why the backwards redneck greeted me with a twelve-gauge. He looked through my fear as if I was on the verge of turning into one of those horrid things. I pleaded, tried to reason, but the man refused to listen. I could understand being guarded and fearing the unknown, but on the receiving end it seemed completely irrational.

With hands tied behind my back, I sat on the floor of a small workshop. No food, no water, and yet he would visit me every day for about ten minutes examining my features as if studying a supposed transformation. That bastard mistook starvation and dehydration for stages of a zombie metamorphosis. He was testing me, and it seemed absurd to me that some hillbilly would have the brainstem capable of drafting this sort of plan.

I still don’t know how James managed to get caught (I gave up trying to talk to him). Somehow James ended up right next to me, bound by rope and teased by the redneck. Then came the beatings. Frequently throughout the night, the door would open and the sound of metal scraping across cement would ring in my ear. A hard force would beat against my chest, my legs, and shoulders. How we managed to escape was merely by chance. James used a metal shard to cut through the rope, and once we were free, the redneck had not the slightest chance in hell.

James found his bass outside the shed. Full of rage, he wanted to storm the house for any like-minded people, but I convinced him otherwise. We were lucky to escape, and I would rather chance against zombies than with another human encounter.

From this entry alone, it is obvious that we made it back to the garage, and that I found my bag left alone where I stashed it. My laptop and cell phone, however, were taken. I can’t even imagine what we will do now that we’ve lost our only means of guidance. Metallica’s Fade to Black suddenly comes to mind, and as the night grows dark, I wait to the sound of a static radio.

Entry Twelve, 12/23/14

My hand is trembling as I scribble this. I can’t control the fear, the inevitability of death has become more and more apparent. I sit on the floor with my head placed against the wall in a room complete with darkness. I stare at the shotgun, realizing that the final shell better be the only one needed. I hope he doesn’t come here. I hope that thing stays where we left him, beaten down in the garage, but I don’t think he will. Why do I doubt so much? Why must I be so fucking pessimistic?

James stares through the peephole, scoping for any signs for the things approach. He whispers a string of trash under his breath, and though it lightens the situation, the knob in front of me continues to turn.

Entry Fourteen, 12/26/14

This house has been compromised, but not by zombies, not even another one of those transparent motherfuckers, but by people. Sad that I would rather deal with the undead than another living person, but they show know sign of being trustworthy. Like a pack of wild dogs, the gang walks through the house following the behavior of their alpha. They talk of slaughter, zombie carnage, and of monstrosities I wouldn’t ever want to encounter.

Fucking shit! There are in the room, right now.

They grabbed some of the gear stashed in this cluttered room and left. Laughing, drinking, the crew went outside to fire shots at the wandering dead, not at all concern of the repercussions. I’m surprised they haven’t spotted me under the bed.

Entry Fifteen, 12/27/14

James saved my ass, once again. He led the group to believe that something was amiss, and with the backdoor left wide open, the fuckers didn’t stop for a second guess. That’s why they went outside shooting their rifles like a group of Rambos. But where James saved my ass, I was quick enough to grab some of the supplies they had stockpiled: a box of shotgun shells, a handful of snacks, and several bottles of water. James wanted to steal the Jeep, but the sight of the cluttered street, which appeared more and more like a war zone, changed his mind.

I still think foot is the best means of travel for the moment, but the strain aggravated James to the point to where he was beginning to question our direction. He was too antsy to control, and my stern reminder of the massing undead did nothing in the end. He abandoned cover to gain a sense of direction. Following his sorry ass, we gathered at the back of a convenient store and watched as cop cars drove by as if racing for a rescue. The cruisers plowed several zombies. One of them crashed directly into the thick wave, whereas the others headed for the parking lots, dodging clusters with sharp over reactions. I still don’t know what they intended to do, I bet the radios blared with some juicy information, but zombies crawled on them like ants on a piece of chocolate.

The fiasco cleared the streets long enough for us to run through with little difficulty. I recognized the parallel street from the familiar businesses, and I believe it was the one that would lead us to one of the supposed Hell Gates. I can’t have James discover that I’m simply running on whim. I highly doubt he would find anything comforting about that. Fortunately for me, he has become distracted by another survivor, whom of which I will refer to as Grace. A very distressed young, shorthaired woman, but at least she hasn’t tried to kill us… yet.

We found her in the same damn place we find ourselves trapped in, a fucking clothing store. If I were to believe her story, she was waiting for another to return. What a fucking waste.

The upside is that I’ve located a medical supply kit, and should be able to treat my wounds soon enough, but right now the zombies bash against the barricaded doors, taunting us.

Entry Seventeen, 12/28/14

I highly doubt I’ll be able to continue this log for much longer. With the increase in undead activity—the streets are literally crawling with the dead like ants in an upset ant bed—the little time I already had is threatened with just about every daring step. I scribble this under the stale glow of a dying emergency light as I huddle into a corner away from them. Slow and stupid, the zombies just below us reach with the same enthusiasm. I just hope that James finds a way to rescue the guy that somehow got himself locked behind extremely thick security doors.

The contraption mentioned in the previous log, the one that I so wanted to inform others about to claim my fair share of bragging rights. Being without my laptop and cell phone feels like I’m beginning to lose sight.

It fucking pisses me off that James wanted to help that stupid bitch. I don’t trust her for a minute, and as much as I dislike James at the moment, I can’t deny his advantage. Fortunately the makeshift barrier worked, at least just enough to get us here. A simple but clever design orchestrated from a table, a few metal clothing displays, and shit load of tape and belts to fasten it all together. Unlike my boast in the previous log, the contraption survived only a few minutes before the continuous zombie plowing wore it down. In the end, James and I resorted to hauling ass into this shit-hole manufacturing warehouse. I’m confident that we won’t survive another episode of this shit.