With smoke billowing into the already polluted air, I slow and continue my merry trek to see where this leads. It’s not that I have much of a choice really. I opt to stay close to the middle of the highway, edging through the tangled metal as best I can. Although keeping me in the open, which already makes me nervous enough, it will give me warning of anything approaching from the trees. I just hope it’s clear to the front.
I stop and reload my partially empty mag with the rounds from the other partly used one. The traffic jam continues ahead in an unrelenting fashion and I see no end to the hopeless blockade of vehicles. I think it’s a little odd that I haven’t come across any road signs that would give me an indication of exactly where I am. I guess time will tell.
Michael Talbot — Journal Entry 3
The lack of disorder when we first found ourselves on the roadway made me think that whatever had happened here was more of a controlled migration rather than a fight-for-life retreat. That and the ground wasn’t littered with brass casings unless this was some abysmal land that had taken gun rights from their citizens. In that case, they never really stood a chance. Sure, they left enough granola bars to keep a hippie commune going for years, but no guns worth a crap or jewelry. Most of the car doors had been shut; certainly something people in panic mode wouldn’t have cared about.
The farther we went along, the more that changed. It was subtle at first, like a car door open or full bottles of water discarded on the side of the road. Then it began to become more insidious, bloody handprints and then blood trails. Next came the true panic, possessions became afterthoughts as everything was shed in a desperate attempt to lighten loads. Aunt Mabel’s fine china set held little importance when your life was endangered, especially from an enemy that wished nothing more than to strip the meat clean from your still breathing body. The only question now was where were they trying to go? It took another mile until I got my answer.
“This place is a junk food addict’s worst nightmare,” I said to John as I looked in another car, hoping they had something that didn’t say ‘healthy’ on it.
“Shit,” John said as he placed his boxes down and began to stuff paraphernalia deeper down into his pockets.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, doing a quick scan. I was not overly concerned at this point. John and my versions of problems were vastly different.
“The Man, man.”
“English, John, we talked about this.”
He pointed instead, which was probably better. I could barely make it out through the maze of cars and trucks ahead. But once I really started to look, it was difficult to miss the olive drab of military vehicles. How he had seen it through the haze in his eyes was a mystery.
“That would explain the controlled movement of the people in the cars.”
“I figured it was the Rapture,” John crunched out.
I looked at him for a moment. “Don’t lose that thought, it’s still a possibility.” But anytime you really want a situation to get all screwed up, just throw the military into the mix. “Now, if we could figure out where everyone went, maybe we could get some answers.”
“Awesome, man, I always wanted to know how whales communicate.”
“Yeah maybe that answer, too. Let’s go.”
I was torn. A part of me wanted to make as much haste as possible to the blockade. Odds were high we would find out what happened here, who the howlers were, and maybe how to get back to where we belonged. On the other hand, I had a healthy fear of all things governmentally controlled. In times of severe crisis, the government is FAR less concerned with the safety and well-being of its citizens than it is the smooth running and continuation of the government. People merely became an obstacle, or a way and means for that end.
It’s funny how depth perception works on the open road. The waves of heat that emanated off the pavement somehow magnified the military vehicles, or maybe that was just how everything was in this new place. What seemed like half a mile, was taking us close to an hour to traverse. Even going as slow as we were, we would have been traveling at a three-mile-an-hour clip. We were burning through daylight like Deneaux burns through cigarettes. (If you are new to my journals, she is one of the most cantankerous old women that ever walked the face of the planet. She has the blood of Calamity Jane and the steady aim of Annie Oakley coursing through her veins.)
We were finally within a hundred yards, I had yet to see any movement or have that sense I was being watched through crosshairs. It was John that nearly gave me a heart attack. I was crouched low, trying to keep as small a profile as I could on my approach, when he dropped one of his boxes.
“Done,” he said as he stretched.
The convoy completely forgotten, I walked back towards him. “Bullshit.”
He proudly held the cardboard flap back.
“You ate an entire carton of Phrito’s?”
He smiled, his teeth most likely permanently stained corn yellow.
“Tonight, when we finally hunker down, you make sure you’re down wind. You ready, or do you need a few minutes to say good bye?”
“I’m good,” he replied as he put the still full box on his shoulder and marched on.
“Not sick of those? Really?”
“Why would I be?”
“Just stay low…let’s see what this is all about,” I told him.
We came up slowly. As the wind shifted, it was not difficult to ascertain that there was nothing living in the general vicinity. The oh-so-ever-present reek of death assailed at least my nostrils, John didn’t seem to care. Then again maybe it did.
“Stink weed?” he asked me.
I didn’t reply. To open my mouth would have sent jets of throat lubricating water to spray from my mouth. A fierce battle had been waged, and my more normal friends (zombies) were the opponent in this drama. A good number of civilians had been ripped apart as they approached the military blockade. I wondered if the zombies had come out of the woods much like our howlers.
Did they co-exist? From all I’d ever learned, predators don’t play well together. So, if not the woods, where then?
Zombies by nature were nomadic, roaming to where the food was. So, in all likelihood, zombies had migrated to this spot en masse. Zombies, people, and spent shells littered the ground; in some places, a few feet thick. It made traveling the roadway impossible, stepping on to the shoulder was far from my favorite idea as it brought us closer to the howlers and whatever other fucking nightmare lingered in there; my guess is there was a Bigfoot or two just for good measure.
John was openly weeping as we passed family after family; either ravaged or hewn in half by excessive crossfire—caught in the middle of an uncaring machinegun nest. If I ever found the puke that had manned that gun, I’d put the Derringer to his temple.
I understand panic, I do. I get it; in spades as a matter of fact. But to just mow civilians down; at that point, what are you saving? Certainly not your soul, because I’m sure Saint Peter will have something to say about that. I checked out a couple of the people, only to get an idea of how long ago this travesty had taken place; rigor mortis had come and gone, the bodies had not quite bloated. The ones that had not been infected were covered in flies and the beginnings of maggots. The insidious little bastards hadn’t taken up root yet.