Zomblog: The Final Entry (15 page)

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single thing to drink. I had to bring my water from about two miles away. It wasn’t terrible, but it is inconvenient. I imagine that is why nobody stayed here permanently.

The best find—besides this sturdy, secure tower—is all the blackberries. I used an empty plastic jug that I found and washed it out to gather a bunch. I easily ate more than I picked, which is why it took so long to eventually come up with a full jug to snack on when I start hiking again.

There is a lot of wildlife in the area. Just sitting here snacking on blackberries, I’ve seen a pair of wolves, a deer, an elk (at least I think it was an elk), and a REALLY big bird that I think was an eagle. Oh…and bugs. Lots and lots of bugs.

Tonight, I shall dine like a queen. The deer I mentioned? Yeah…it is dressed and a haunch is currently roasting over my fire. I dragged all the icky stuff down by the stream I mentioned that is a couple miles away in hopes that it will keep any wandering beasties far from my camp.

Wednesday, June 23

Wow! Last night, from up in the tower, I spotted over a dozen other fires scattered throughout these hills. A few were in clusters. This is perhaps the largest signs of life I have encountered since being in Portland. Of course, in Portland, you heard more than saw other people.

I guess it makes sense. The zombie presence is minimal if not non-existent. There is an obvious abundance of wild game and fuel in the form of the wood. I imagine that farming is possible. Plus, there are lots of edible plants if you know what to look for (like Eric did). I wish I’d paid better attention when he came to me with all those leaves and roots.

I’ll move on tomorrow.

Thursday, June 24

I am camped out in a completely looted, vile-smelling farmhouse. I had to backtrack here to camp for the night and get some good sleep. The walled town is only a few miles down the road. I want to get there just before sunrise to ensure the most time possible for exploring.

I’ll get as much rest tonight as possible, but I have seen a few roaming stragglers. Just on my return trip to this place I had to put down a pair of zombies. They were holding hands! That’s the first time that I’ve seen something like that. My original thought as I was approaching was that perhaps they were stuck that way. I checked…the fingers were actually laced.

Weird.

Saturday, June 26

Zombies are only a part of the problem. I’m in the high school locker room catching my breath from yesterday. And it wasn’t a zombie that almost did me in. Somebody has managed to exist here amidst at least a few hundred of the undead. What’s worse, they’ve set up booby-traps using the zombies! Or at least parts of them.

I found the first such trap right after scaling the northern wall. I was near a building that I was fairly certain used to be a bank. All the windows were painted black, but the doors were gone. I peeked in and a pair of dead hands snagged me by my hair. A creeper was suspended upside-down just above the main doorway. When I stepped inside, I triggered a release mechanism that dropped the thing right on top of me.

To make things more entertaining in this little slice of Hell, I think at least half the zombies are wearing helmets. Somebody has way too much time on their hands.

Since then, I’ve walked around blind corners to find a dozen still-animated heads suspended from wires, more creepers—many obviously made that way intentionally—than I have ever seen before in one place at one time. There are also regular traps designed to maim or kill. Even the rooftops have been rigged in places.

My shoulders are sore from all the killing I did today. And while I haven’t seen this mystery person, I know that he or she is out there somewhere…watching me. Two of the traps that I triggered intentionally have been reset.

Okay, I get it. This is “your” turf. But aren’t you being just a bit greedy? There is enough here for several people to live off of for another year or so easily. Using that time, gardens could be planted; the hills are teeming with animals that would keep an abundance of meat on the table.

Oh well, this isn’t my problem. I just want to load up with enough essentials to last a while and be on my way. I’ll try to do this without going heads-up with the resident of this dead town. I’ve gathered a few things; womanly things, a sleeping bag, a stone and steel for blade sharpening,

Today I wandered the halls of this school. I half-expected the person to be hiding out here. The building is well-barricaded with a reinforced fence that goes all the way around. There is a courtyard with a barbecue pit that had warm, smoldering coals in it.

Tomorrow, the plan is to grab a few things; perhaps fishing gear and some canned goods from one of the grocery stores. Instant coffee wouldn’t suck, either. Now there’s a sentence that I never thought I’d utter.

One last thing…I will get a map of Nevada. I’d love an atlas, but I’ll settle for one of those foldy things. As long as the resident or residents of this place leave me be, I will be gone tomorrow.

Sunday, June 27

I met the Keeper of McDermitt. He’s not at all what I expected. His name is Michael DeNoma, and his story is…

I can’t explain it. He and I have an indirect tie. He was in the prison in Pendleton where Sam and the others stayed briefly after their capture. I was floored when that bomb dropped. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was leaving. It was around noon when I had my things on a line and had thrown the end over the wall when I heard a quiet voice tell me to “be careful, there’s a few roaming around outside today.” I almost broke my neck, it whipped around so fast.

When I laid eyes on him, I almost laughed. This was no action hero or
Road Warrior
wanna-be. What I saw was an incredibly overweight young man with crazy orange hair and the scraggliest wildman beard—also orange—that I’ve ever seen in my life.

His more-than-ample belly sagged over the folded down waist of his jean shorts. His skin was ghostly white except for his glorious farmer’s tan.

When I didn’t speak right away, he brought up the sword he carried in his left hand. His expression switched to that of concern, like perhaps he thought that I would attack him. One thing that I learned over the next few hours was that this guy could never sit down at a poker table and hope to win.

I thanked him for the warning and turned to go. That’s when he called out.

“Wait.”

Just a single word, but there was so much in it; pleading, longing, lonliness, sorrow. All the worst feelings that a person can feel existed in that single word. So…I turned back to face him.

After a brief exchange, we decided to go back to the high school. We started talking while he pulled out his secret stash of junk food. (At least it explained the obesity.) He showed me how a lot of the stuff still hadn’t even reached the expiration date. Ah, the marvels of science.

We ate, drinking a bottle of Dr. Pepper that had a funky aftertaste, and talked. Actually, he did most of the talking. That’s when I discovered that he’d been in prison. When the inmates took over, he was one of the “freaks” who survived. When the opportunity came and people were given the option to stay or go, he left. He wanted to save his mother. He didn’t.

After that, he travelled. Sometimes alone and sometimes with others. He heard the Las Vegas broadcast one night and started heading that way. When he reached McDermitt, he expected the same reaction he’d gotten in Burns. That’s when he heard the screams coming from within the walls. He cursed his poor physical fitness because, by the time he was over the wall, the screaming had stopped. It only took him a moment to discover the source…a crowd of those things hunched over a body pulling out strands of insides and ripping off hunks of meat.

Something in that moment broke him. He didn’t have the nerve to simply offer himself over to the mob, but he made up his mind that he was done with running. He searched every residence and business for survivors. After three weeks, he was certain that he was alone.

Everything fell into a routine after that. He called it his daily cat-and-mouse game. The booby-traps came after that first winter. Three men showed up and just started to ransack the place. He didn’t have the nerve to confront them, but they broke into the town’s iconic White Horse Inn. They drank too much, too fast. The former citizens took care of the problem from there.

He went to work the next day rigging traps. He was often surprised at what he came up with. Everything evolved to what it is now from that day.

I’ll leave in the morning. I asked Michael if he wanted to come along. He said no. His only reason was that he just didn’t see the point. Did it matter if he died on the road, or in this dead town? At least here he would be relatively comfortable and never worry about food. I guess he doesn’t expect to outlive his resources. Looking at him, I’d say that is a good guess, but he has defied the odds so far.

Monday, June 28

Back on the road.

As I head south, the left side of this sometimes invisible highway is dotted with more than the occasional body hanging from the big powerline structures. Many of them are still moving. However, several of the bodies finally succumbed to the strain. There are piles of bodies, and even the assorted head or two, strewn about. It’s gross.

There are signs written in a strange language along the way. It took me most of the day to remember where I’d seen that type of writing before. It’s the Natives. I saw the same sort of stuff when I was at Warm Springs with Eric.

I stopped around midday at some ransacked, old casino. You might say that I hit the jackpot. It had shade! The sun is blazing. I’ve drank a lot of water. Since I’m alone, I will be changing my travel times from morning to late afternoon and early morning. The heat is just too brutal for travel.

Thursday, July 1

Cody survived! And my stupid dog is back. My stupid, wonderful dog.

From what I gather, (Cody scribbled this down for me on a few scraps of paper) he escaped because of the actions of Eric. The big idiot sacrificed himself so that this young man could have a chance. Cody was able to run, and followed the stream until he lost his footing on a slippery, flat rock. His ankle made a loud popping sound that he could hear above the noises of the water, moaning zombies, and Eric’s screams.

He tried to stand, but couldn’t. All he could do was drag himself with his hands—the one missing two fingers sure didn’t help—down the stream. Twice, he went over small waterfalls. Both times were incredibly painful; the second time, Cody lost consciousness. He has no idea how he didn’t drown or end up eaten.

By that night, his foot was almost black and swollen so bad that he had to cut off his shoe. He couldn’t walk, and kept hearing zombies groaning, crying, and crashing through the brush. He managed to climb up in a tree where he stayed for two days.

Then he got sick. He doesn’t remember much over those next couple of days. The next thing he
does
remember is Sam curled up beside him. That explains where my dog went, but I don’t know whether to be proud of him…or jealous.

When he recovered, Cody said he started off in search of me, and it was Sam who led him in the correct direction. Sam walked and Cody followed because he didn’t have anything better to do and he liked having a dog around. Talk about making a girl feel special.

He didn’t enter McDermitt. Sam skirted it and wandered around most of the day until he picked up my trail again.

So…here we are…one big, happy family.

Friday, July 2

Reached the empty—for the most part, but I will get to that in a minute—and surprisingly intact town of Orovada. This place was worth a day long stop. Had I known we were so close, I would have pushed through yesterday. I guess I don’t even think about it anymore, but remember all those signs that used to tell you how far to the next town? Most of those are gone. For whatever reason, they are basically extinct.

This place couldn’t have been home to very many people before. There are a couple of small schools and a lot of farm equipment. Also, a family of five.

Yes, today we met Jack Billings, his wife Candela, and their children, Enzo, Monica, and Lupe. They were not only friendly, and insisted that we stay for a few days and refresh ourselves, they requested that Sam be allowed to hook up with a pair of his bitches that are due to go into heat any day now. Jack said he was starting to get concerned about the gene pool of his dogs. (If there are less than fifty running around this town, I’ll pitch a tent and call it home.)

Everywhere you look, dogs of all shapes and sizes are sprawled in the shade. Looking around, it didn’t take me long to come up with a million questions. But I settled on two.

How in the hell are you surviving out here in the middle of nowhere? Take your pick, zombies or raiders, you should be easy pickings.

Jack showed me an impressive array of booby-traps, but that still didn’t really assure me of anything. He explained that the Santa Rosa Mountains on the east acted as one buffer, the inhospitable and empty terrain was helpful, but the military presence in Winnemucca to the south was likely the biggest factor.

I was so caught off guard by that statement that I didn’t remember to ask my second question for a few minutes. To his credit, Jack just sat at the table with his hands folded neatly in front while I processed this news. Eventually I asked the second question, but only because I still needed a moment to deal with the answer of the first.

How do you keep all of these dogs fed? He told me something about plentiful game and that the dogs helped ensure that nothing ever went to waste. He mentioned some process with bone meal, but I wasn’t hearing much of what he said.

Once he finished, I was prepared to dive in and find out about this military presence in Winnemucca. Before I could, he asked me where I was headed. I figured his honesty deserved mine.