I put the barrel of the gun to his forehead and whispered, “I’m sorry” as I pulled the trigger. The shot, while muffled a bit, echoed in the morning sky.
I looked over to where I last saw Tom. Something stirred in the shadows of the door frame. I raised my arm to where I thought his head might be and waited for him to step into the light.
“Easy, Sam,” a voice called. Tom took a step forward, hands raised.
We checked Preston in silence. Just above his left ankle was a distinct bite mark. The area around it was black, fading to gray. After only a brief discussion, we tossed Preston over the side.
* * * * *
We hear the rumble of something coming our way…a big garbage truck! Holy—
Tuesday, February 12
It was Al! As happy as I was to see him, I think Tom almost cried. He really felt personally betrayed by somebody he had put a certain degree of trust in. To discover that the betrayal had actually been a clever and calculated move that probably saved our collective asses…
He broke everything down to Tom and me once we got back to the complex.
Knowing the guys back at the hospital like he did, he was certain that if he didn’t play along, then all of us, him included, would be killed. By going with them, he was able to convince them that killing Tom was a waste of time. Also, he led them on a wild goose chase after me and Preston.
He was hoping that we would take off for the truck and head back to the complex. Once Tom stole the car, Al had to think fast because now they were out for our blood. Knowing that if we hadn’t run for safety, we would probably be at the Fred Meyer, he kept them searching in all the wrong places.
He said that since gunfire is still heard all over out here, we never brought any attention directly our way. But it helped him keep tabs. This morning, he had a feeling in his gut that the single shot had come from our direction. Worried that it was something bad since he had seen the army of zombies around the building whenever they had passed close, he decided that he had to make a move for us.
Al said that the gang was only what we had seen. Seven guys. They are holed up at the high school in the gym. They aren’t well organized, and mostly just interested in finding drugs and booze. Everybody was out cold when he slipped away. He had noticed the garbage truck a couple of blocks from the school.
The way they come and go is to get up on the roof and at one end, kitty-corner from the gym is an orchard; it is on the other side of a fence. Only a few of the things were wandering there, the majority are around the main entrance. So far, they had been careful to lure the zombies away and distract them from that orchard.
Al made a dash for the truck and then came for us. He had a Dumpster on the forks out in front and bulldozed his way to where Tom and I were watching. We jumped into the Dumpster and Al took us back…all the way to our truck.
The bed was splattered with Scott’s blood. Tom decided to unload everything from the pick-up truck to the garbage truck and then Al drove us back to the complex. Tom said we didn’t have time to clean it and Samantha would be upset enough without seeing all that mess.
Al even had his and Tom’s pack with most of the stuff they had obtained at the narcotics locker. Between that and what we grabbed with Preston, it was quite a haul.
Just very costly.
I finished washing up. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep.
Thursday, February 14
At last, a peaceful couple of days. Tomorrow, we will have a gathering to speak on the loss of Scott and Preston. Samantha asked if we could wait. I guess she just needed some time to get her mind wrapped around the thought of losing somebody she was such a part of. I know we’ve all lost people, but who can begrudge her some time to mourn privately since time is a luxury we have in abundance.
* * * * *
Al came to see me. So much for a peaceful day.
He’s sick.
It seems that when he got us back here and plowed through those things surrounding the fence, he got scratched up. We were busy blasting the ones close by so he could make it out of the cab and onto the roof. Of course, from there he joined us in the Dumpster where folks were helping us up and onto the trailer rigs.
At some point as he was fighting those things off and climbing out onto the arm of the hydraulic fork his arm got scratched up. Also, he has a puffy lesion on the side of his neck. Funny thing…his eyes are bloodshot…blackish blood.
Everybody was so excited about our return then so upset by the two deaths…nobody bothered to check any of us for marks or bites.
I went and brought Tom and Dennis to take a look. Dennis said that there is really nothing we can do. Al asked us to kill him, but neither of us could do it while he is still alive. Al won’t kill himself. He said something about religious beliefs. I wasn’t listening. All I could think of were Beth and Erin.
We decided to set him up with a bed in a bathroom in one of the warehouses. He will have a twenty-four hour watch. If he loses consciousness, we’ll tie him up real good…and wait.
Friday, February 15
The little memorial service has everybody in a funk. It was a reminder of just what we are trying so desperately to ignore on the other side of the fence.
The world is dying.
Let me correct that...mankind is dying.
Everybody knows about Al now. It seems like the entire complex has gone to see him and spend a few minutes with what has to be our first acknowledged hero.
* * * * *
Late this afternoon...Al lost consciousness.
Saturday, February 16
Alvin Maurice Godwin died this morning at 1:14 a.m.
His eyes opened at 1:16 a.m.
Monica Campinelli was at his side with Richard Hess and Cindy Partridge.
Monica put him to rest.
Sunday, February 17
Something big is happening in what can only be Beaverton or Portland. This morning, we awoke to a series of explosions. The horizon to our east lit up and, as the sun rose to a cloudless blue sky, the entire horizon is a smudge of black plumes from what must be incredible fires.
Some of the dead on that side of our complex turned and wandered off in that general direction. Not nearly enough to make that much of a difference.
I held a guitar class this afternoon. The kids were pretty receptive. I think that all the crap from these past several days has, for the most part, just bounced off them. It’s the adults who seem frayed.
There was a fight today. Over a woman. Don’t we have enough problems? Mankind is being eradicated and we still find time to fight over relatively petty bullshit.
Tom hasn’t spoken to anybody since Al died. He is, in some inexplicable way, taking the blame. Maybe because he felt betrayed at first…hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that I haven’t been able to quit thinking about Paul…the friend of mine in prison.
I’ve heard rumors (from him mostly) that if martial law or something REALLY bad happens, the guards are supposed to kill all the inmates. I wonder if he’s dead. I wonder about my band mates. I wonder about Megan. Hell…I even wonder about Britney and all those folks that used to flit by on the tabloids (and news channels for that matter). I wonder who woulda won the presidential election.
Now…none of that matters. I just wonder if the day will pass without another one of us dying. Turning.
Monday, February 18
Another day and whatever is on fire to the east of us is not showing any signs that it is burning out. Occasionally, the distant rumble of another explosion can be felt.