The Infected (14 page)

I heard the fuckers breaking through into the lower level at just after 6pm yesterday. The sun was just going down, I was sipping on my third last beer and I could hear the dead fucks tripping over my bar stools – that used to be where I sat when I had breakfast at the little counter in my kitchen. They are pretty quiet these zombies… there must have been close on a hundred of them streaming into my house – were I have lived, slept, eaten, got fucked, been fucked... Apart from the odd plate breaking or couch being dragged across the new laminate flooring that I installed only two months ago in the lounge (dude, it’s a lot harder than they make it out to be. If you survive this and one day think of putting laminate flooring in a room in your new zombie-proof house, don’t. Get someone else to do it for you), they hardly make a sound. Except for that breathing. With so many of them just what, two metres, maybe one metre below me, it’s like a fucking pulse. It’s hoarse. It’s heaving. It’s fucking horrible.

So I thought to myself, okay Chris, you’ll just have to live like this until you fucking eat all of your food and die of hunger. The steps up to the top level are barricaded too, by the way, with a bed, chairs, TV’s, an outside table and chairs, a Weber braai, basically anything I could find. So I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t be able to come up through there, and even if they did, I have my gun to at least kill a couple. But then I realized that they’re not coming that way. Excellent. Excellent! Excellent?

No fucking way is it excellent… I heard the glass shattering on the lower level patio door at about 11pm – it actually woke me up. Believe it or not, I managed to actually fall asleep when there are a couple dozen blood thirsty, flesh craving zombie below me.

I laughed… yeah, go back outside you thick fucks. Then it dawned on me… The way they got over the fence. What if they managed to do that from my bottom balcony to my top one? Where I only have glass doors and a glass window to fucking protect me? So I quietly opened the door to the balcony and crept out into the freezing fucking cold night air. I crawled slowly up to the balustrade and peered over. There were twenty pairs of dead eyes looking up at me. There was a collective fucking gasp as they saw me and they started scratching at the wall trying to get at me. I went back in slowly and locked the door (as if that would fucking help), and thought to myself – alright, well that’s the end of my sleep then.

So I have been lying here awake since then, listening to them clawing at the concrete of the walls and the wooden pergola that provides bugger-all shade on that balcony, waiting for the first hand to appear and grab the balustrade. And it did three minutes ago. A scrawny white hand with a swallow tattooed between the thumb and forefinger. The owner’s other hand came up a bit later – this one only notable for a fucking horrible wedding ring – looks like a knuckle buster with a big green stone on it. What a chop.

His head has just appeared now. You know the lead singer from Aha? Well he looks fucking nothing like that! More like that Robert Carlisle chap that acted as that psycho in Trainspotting. Except for a balding head and half his teeth missing. There are more hands now, three pairs, and a large women’s head just made an appearance. Dude, I better say my goodbyes. I don’t know how much longer I have. It’s been good knowing you this way – I have a feeling that we may have had a good couple of decent nights out if we had met back when the world was just a mad world, not a completely fucked one.

Now I never get fucking sentimental or anything, but thanks for being there these last two weeks. It’s made this inevitable end a wee bit easier.

And dude, if you get out, like out of here, out of this fucking place with these fucking zombies, and get down to Bloemfontein and its safe, please do me a favour. Would you be able Shit – the Robert Carlisle dude is almost over onto the balcony. I gotta go. Peace dude, and don’t let these fuckers win!

Catch you on the flipside.

Chris

There it is… I just read it again as I copied and pasted it here, and it sent shivers down my spine. Again. I can’t really expect the best, but knowing him – well, as well as you can know someone when you have never even seen them in person – I reckon Chris is going to go out – or went out – blazing with a smile on his face and his gun in his hand. And I reckon I know what his last word was… it starts with an ‘F’ if you need a clue.

So in tribute to my cyber mate Chris, FUCK.

Sam

5:16pm, June 24

Hi. Sorry that I haven’t posted in the last few days. To be honest though, you are probably lucky. You didn’t miss much and I wasn’t that great company anyways. The foreboding sense of doom that had been swarming around the last few weeks totally engulfed me after I heard from Chris. Again, it just seems like everyone I have ever known is dead, has recently died or is close to dying. I don’t want to get into it too much, but after wallowing in self pity and shedding a shite load of tears over the last few days, I think that I am at peace with what is happening around me. I am Will Smith. I am legend. Okay, not really…

But I remember watching that movie and thinking, “Hey, that would actually be pretty cool. I reckon I could do that.” I could be the only person alive – I like my own company. And the same with that movie Castaway with Tom Hanks where his plane crashed and he was the lone survivor. Being stranded on a desert island wouldn’t be too bad. Apart from no one to have sex with. I could see myself enjoying that – the stranded on the island bit – I am seriously horny all the time now… the next hot infected girl that comes my way… I’m kidding. But they’re only movies. Made up. This isn’t actually that fun. An experience nonetheless, but no fun. But I’m over it – whatever happens, will happen. If I get surrounded by the infected overnight, then so be it. If I never hear from my Mom again, of course I will miss her deeply and will mourn her, but if it happens, then okay. If I never find Lil or hear from her, then I just hope that… that it was quick. No pain.

I am here, I am alive, I am growing my own food. I can get through this.

Take care and be positive.

Sam W

7:48pm, June 26

It rained today. WTF? In the middle of winter!? As if it hadn’t been cold enough already. I was sitting on the kitchen counter watching two of the infected ambling side by side, even though they seemed oblivious of one another. One was old, probably in his sixties – he was wearing a black and white flannel shirt and the remains of what looked like cargo pants (apart from the shirt he might have been a pretty cool and ‘with it’ old dude. I mean, I was wearing cargo pants too, although mine were camouflage – one nil to me old man). His companion, definitely not his wife because she looked more than half his age… but in these times (well actually, those times), I guess you can never be too sure. Anyway, she was wearing a denim mini-skirt, one brown boot which I am sure used to be white and a T-shirt which read “Dolphins are just gay sharks”. She also had a seriously mangled right hand. I counted a couple of times but could only see three fingers at the most – there was something dangling to the one side but I am sure that that was just infected skin tissue. She held it close to her side, an indication, I think, that the infected could still feel pain, and she kept it as still as possible and I could see blood dripping from it even though I was pretty far away.

About fifteen minutes before the odd couple came into view I thought that I had heard thunder. I’d been daydreaming about something and may actually have drifted off (you know when you are just about to fall asleep and you snap out of it? You had been thinking about something for ages, maybe in a subconscious sense, and when you come around you can’t remember a damn thing of what you had been thinking? I’m sure that that’s were all the best ideas in the world come from – being able to remember what you had been thinking about just before you fall asleep.) Well anyways, I think I was in that place when the thunder disturbed me, although I had serious doubts about it being thunder. It was a miserable, overcast, dreary day, but surely it wouldn’t rain in winter? Sure, global warming is a bitch, but it couldn’t rain here in June in Jo’burg, could it?

But it did. As the old man and young lady trundled along next to each other, the rain started to fall, slow at first but gradually getting harder. They stopped in their tracks and eventually acknowledged each other’s presence with a glance to their sides. Then, seriously unexpectedly, they both let out what was at first a low, grumbling howl, which then escalated into a full blown, ear shattering wail. It sent shivers down the back of my neck. And my arms. And then I heard similar screams coming from all around me. I had goosebumps everywhere.

The two that I had been watching then broke out into a run – well as much of a run as they could manage – and headed for shelter, a carport in a house across the road from my complex where a Toyota Hilux still stood, door open, indicator long dead from a flat battery due to the engine running, and the gate wide open. The owner must have been in the middle of arriving home one day, getting ready to be welcomed by his wife, maybe with a cold beer in her hand and the warm smell of a delicious roast bursting from the kitchen. Maybe he would have sat down with the paper and caught up with the happenings of the day, or if he had kids, spent the last few hours of winter sunshine pushing them on their swings in the back garden or playing hide-and-go-seek in amongst the tall trees. But he didn’t. He was probably unexpectedly attacked from behind by one, maybe two, maybe even six or seven of the infected, and bitten, mauled, maybe even partially eaten before he died. And now two of the infected were using his carport for shelter from the rain.

The old dude was haphazardly trying to dry himself while the mini-skirt girl was trying to do the same but with only one hand. I watched them as a stream of rain from the street slowly inched its way down the brick driveway towards the two. Their eyes grew bigger as they stood, mesmerised by the stream of water that was growing in length and steadily gathering pace. The old man, showing a spring in his step which belied his years (and letting out an ear aching scream which belied his gender), nudged the girl out the way as he jumped onto the bonnet of the car parked next to what would have been the Hilux’s spot, an almost metallic turquoise Toyota Corolla – the family obviously liked that make of car.

Mini-skirt shrieked. I don’t know whether it was aimed at Old Dude or the fast approaching water, but she shrieked nonetheless and clambered onto the car, making a meal of it and slipping a couple of times. But she did eventually get on, and just as the stream of water, well, by that time it had broken up into three streams, reached the car and disappeared into its shadow. As the odd couple stood gingerly on the bonnet of the horribly coloured car, I found myself thinking…hey, they don’t like water. They hate it. In fact, they are absolutely petrified of it. I started praying for more and more rain. Not only would it be good for my veggie garden, but it also seemed – and I had the evidence right in front of me – that the infected are scared of water.

Interesting.

Sam

4:32pm, June 27

Hi there bloggers – if there are any of you still out there. My email has been quiet. And when I say quiet, that means that I have not received anything for days. Not even junk mail or spam, which I am sure would, like cockroaches, survive even the end of the world.

I’ve been thinking today. A lot. After yesterday’s rain (which lasted for less than an hour – today is a typical Highveld winter day – deep blue sky, not a cloud in sight and not a breath of wind). But I’ve been thinking that when the rains come I’ll make my move. For Bloemfontein.

If there is a period of extended rain (and I am not sure how I will know that it will be an extended period because I have not seen a weather forecast since sometime in April). But if say, just for speculation sake, there is a week of rain – and I’m not expecting it anytime soon, maybe September at the earliest – then it should be safe enough for me to get out of Johannesburg and head towards Bloemfontein without being chased by a horde of the infected. Well at least I hope so. I don’t expect there to be many of them once I leave the confines of urban Gauteng, so I should be safe as soon as I get out of ‘town’ and then, in my R8 (I still smile whenever I think of ‘my’ car parked downstairs), I’d be there in a jiffy. Shit… that’s something my Dad used to say. In a jiffy…

Sorry about that. Um, where was I? Oh yes. So as soon as the rains come I’ll head for, hopefully, a safe retreat in the middle of the Free State. I still search the web occasionally looking for any info about this… place… but nothing concrete has come up. I reckon that I’ll still try – I mean, I need a change of scenery for starters – I am usually bored out of my mind and I am so tired lately, oddly from doing nothing, that I sleep a good 10 hours a night and may nap for two or three hours during the day – usually in half an hour or hour bursts – that I think a change of scenery may be just what I need.

So, although it’s at least two months away, I have started making a ‘to do list’ – here it is:

BLOEMFONTEIN ROADTRIP

TO-DO LIST:

1 – Get petrol for my car (what does the R8 take? I don’t think it’s a diesel, but I must check. I don’t want to take a chance stopping to fill up at a petrol station – I’d rather have my own stash. I must also start it regularly – I don’t want to be ready to go and the car wont frigging start. That would suck.

2 – Get some ‘padkos’. For those who can’t speak Afrikaans that literally translates to ‘road food’. I’d have to pack as much food as I could, (along with as much petrol as I can) just in case it takes me longer than expected. And what if I got all the way to Bloem and there was no safe haven, no survivors, no food, nothing? I’d have to have more than enough supplies to keep me going. And, and I’ve just thought of this now, what if I pick up some hitchhikers on the way? Maybe they’d need food too. So yeah, gotta be well prepared. (Where would they sit though… I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it and if I come to it).

3 – I’d obviously want to carry on doing this and updating you with my blogs from wherever I end up, so I’d have to try and hook up a mobile solar power kit – shouldn’t be too hard. At least I hope not. Good thing I’ve got this Macbook.

4 – Guns… I’d have to get the guns I’ve found in the complex as protection. Sure, the nail gun has worked before, but out there, in their ‘territory’, on my own, I think I would rather take my chances with a gun than with a nail gun. Ammunition obviously would also be needed.

Well that’s all I can think of for now. As I said, still a couple of months away so not getting too carried away with this idea yet. Who knows what will happen in the next two months… just look what has happened in the last two…

So yeah. Bloemfontein, here I come. (In a couple months!)

Take care.

Sam W

5:03pm, 1 July

A pinch and a punch for the first of the month! Yeah, we’ve made it through to another one – congrats.

Not much news from here – the usual really. I am seriously boring, and thus I am seriously bored. I did get sunburned yesterday though – I fell asleep while lying outside looking at the sky and woke up an hour and a half later a few skin tones darker – my nose is pink! Was nice though, sunburn aside, to just lie there and forget about the chaos around me and around the world. I dreamt about Lil – not for the first time – we were swimming in the sea (hmmmnnnnn – she always did look good in a bikini) and then, as dreams tend to jump from place to place, we were suddenly in a pool, the swimming pool at the Cabana Beach hotel in Umhlanga where we had gone on holiday in October last year. Not much happened in the dream, we were just floating in the water, but it was one of the best dreams that I have ever had.

Otherwise I recently found the CD for a computer game, Football Manager, when I was cleaning out the spare room cupboard, looking for anything of use. Basically it’s a tactical game where you are the manager of a football team and choose who to buy, who to play, what tactics to use – it may not sound like it, but it’s seriously addictive. So I now allow myself one hour of Football Manager a day. I’ve taken over at Middlesborough – I didn’t want to go for any of the big teams, but also didn’t want someone who I would end up relegating from the Premier League after one season. They also had a decent amount of money, 12 million pounds, so I got to buy some decent players. Freddy Guarin you little Columbian beauty! For 1,3 million pounds this dude, who it seems can score from anywhere on the frikking field, was a bargain. I also managed to buy David Beckham for 4 million quid – okay, he’s old, but you should see his stats – eighteens, nineteens and twenties throughout (players are rated out of twenty on numerous skills, passing, finishing, heading, tackling, influence etc.,) and even though Beckham is getting on, I’ll still get a good season or two out of him.

But writing that has got me thinking… do you think people like David Beckham and Posh Spice have been infected? Can all the money in the world save you from something like this? I suppose if you have a helicopter you could fly away, and if you have a helicopter you probably have a boat too, so you could take your helicopter to your boat and float away. But then Beckham and Posh and Brooklyn and the other two kids (I doubt anyone else knows their names), would eventually run out of caviar and croissants, or whatever rich people keep on their boats, and they would have to go ashore for food. And it doesn’t matter if you can bend a round thing into the top corner of the net from thirty yards or used to earn the equivalent of ten million Rand a week, the infected will try get you either way… But I hope that they have enough food on that boat. And I hope you do too wherever you are.

Take care.

Sam W

6:39pm, July 6

Hi – still alive, still bored as hell. The last few days have been the worst so far. I spend my time pacing up and down trying to think of things to do. I am eating more, maybe just so that I will have to go out and waste a day sometime in the near future looking for more food… I am rereading books. I am playing every song I have ever learned on the guitar. I am naming each of the infected that wander down the street in the winter sun. I am talking to the ants that congregate at the corner of the sink all year round. I am losing my flippin’ mind.

Apart from speaking to my Mom once a day, I have no contact with the outside world. It’s been overcast too – no rain, unfortunately – so I guess that has put a bit of a dampener on my mood too. My Mom is okay. Well, she is probably slightly less than okay. Since my Dad did what my Dad did, she has had trouble socialising with the rest of the folks in the house. They are also running out of food and don’t have many options for replenishing their stocks – like me, they are going through food a lot quicker than they did right after the literal ‘shit hit the fan’. She said that she is not sure how long she can last. “Samuel,” she said, and she only ever calls me Samuel when (a) I have done something wrong/stupid/stupid and wrong, or (b) when she has had one too many Old Brown Sherry’s to drink – I don’t think either were the case. “Samuel, I am scared. I have always thought that someone, the police, the army, the damn FBI or the CIA from the TV would be along to rescue us. But it’s not going to happen Samuel. We’re alone and it’s not going to happen.” Not long after that she broke down in tears and put the phone down before I could even try and comfort her. But what would I have said? “Don’t worry Mom, the Macgyver or the A-Team will be on their way (or in more modern times, that girl from Alias, maybe even Hoartio from CSI Miami) – they always make it just in the nick of time, don’t they?” Or would I have said, “Yes Mom, you’re right. We’re doomed. It’s only a matter of time before we are all eaten alive by some infected fucker with one eye and a bloodied Bafana Bafana shirt.” I am actually quite glad that I didn’t have the opportunity to say anything.

Sam

11:12am, July 8

Hey – eventually something to write about. I saw two of ‘them’ having a fight today! They actually woke me up. I was dreaming of… doubt she’ll read this anyways so I don’t mind naming her – Hilary Johnson from my standard seven geography class. She used to sit in front of me in Mrs. Cloete’s class and she always smelled of almonds – in a good way. I was infatuated with her for two years, but if I said two words to her in those two years, that would have been a seriously awkward conversation. So anyway, I was having one of ‘those’ dreams, when I was rudely awoken by a buxom brunette and a balding woman probably in her sixties fighting over the remains of a dead cat. They were just below my bedroom window, and just as I peeked out of the curtains, Big Boobs grabbed Baldy and they tumbled through the bottom floor window, the crash reverberating loudly through the silence of the deserted complex.

That was it, I thought, but then Baldy vaulted through the now open window, tawny cat leg in her mouth, and she was followed closely by Big Boobs, no tawny cat leg in her mouth – way to go old Baldy. They carried on going at each other like animals in the downstairs garden until, and this was seriously gruesome… they were pushing, pulling and groping at each other around the garden, stumbling in the flower beds and against the low walls, when Baldy’s leg twisted beneath her and she fell straight onto one of those umbrella holders, you know the metal ones that have that hollow piping where you place the umbrella pole? That went straight through the back of her head and came out where her nose used to be. I can still taste the little bit of vomit that suddenly found its way into my mouth when that happened. What a way to start the day!

So Big Boobs, obviously tired and hurt – she had a large fragment of glass sticking out of her right leg, just above the knee – hobbled over to Baldy, snatched the cat leg from her clenched jaws and devoured it in a second, bones, claws and all. Pretty sick. Then she was on her way, not even glancing back at Baldy, another confirmation that they have none or limited feelings – no remorse, no sorrow, nothing. I just wonder where they had found that cat – I haven’t seen any in ages, and come to think of it, it’s been a while since I have heard any dogs barking at night or any cats wailing at each other… the infected must be getting hungry.

While I was sitting at the kitchen window today, again meticulously noting the numbers and movements of the infected, it suddenly hit me how many people are infected (a nice way of saying dead or dying I suppose). I looked at my note pad and it was just filled with numbers, each one representing what was once a living, breathing, talking human being with a job and a family and friends and thoughts. Now they are just numbers on a well worn notepad which I bought from CNA when it was safe to go out. Safe to walk around the shops. Safe to be seen.

What is happening to the world – will we survive? Will the human race be able to continue? I know that in the course of the world, earth has experienced something like four or five mass extinctions (don’t quote me on that in case I have the wrong figures), so maybe this is just our time? Like a cassette tape, we are coming to an abrupt end. What we might be going through now is that few seconds of silence – the clear tape – before the cassette player clicks… ‘stop’.

On that cheerful note… take care

Sam W