The Zombie Bandwagon - Chapter 1 (Rough Draft)
1
19 March 2014
I remember that sound. That last ping, ping on the pavement and those last frantic hollow clicks before, well, that painful trek to the other side. I remember a lot of sounds really. Sad, angry, fearful ones mostly, but there are a few happy ones here and there. Those happy sounds made the others a little less intimidating, and you could sleep a little better at night. Laughter, talking about the day, the sound of boiling water that meant you could have a warm meal; that sugar coating that gave you the drive to press on. Five years ago I would have told you that sugar coating was a sign of weakness. Now that it's all you have? Suicide would be the last hopeful thought when the coating did go.
Things are different now, well, not entirely. The sun still rises and sets, the seasons change and safety is power. But since It happened I can't spend mornings writing thoughtful prose about the sun or the seasons and be sure in the knowledge that I would have food to eat and a safe bed to sleep in.
All of the paper nowadays is used as ledgers or for extensive search and retrieve plans or whatever else the day-to-day toils of survival call for. It is no small wonder. Paper is so rare now since It happened. Clean paper. Sure, we have piles of old newspapers that we really only use for fire starter. Sometimes an article will catch your eye, but no one wants to think about how things were, and the young ones just can't understand. They may eventually. I don't know. Nothing is certain anymore but death and a fight for survival.
Funny how everything is marked by The Event. We judge our lives by what destroyed them? That is why we need the sugar coating, everything is too damn depressing. Our places we stay, the food we eat, Them, hell, even ourselves are all reasons to off ourselves.
But we don't.
Too stubborn I guess. Good or bad, it's kept us alive and kicking.
Yesterday I saw kids playing tag. A few hours later I saw those same kids devoured. It's a world of black and white and we're stuck in the dark; and when we can afford to, we grasp for that light like our lives depend upon it. Because they do.
The sun has gone down. I'll write more later, it's my turn to watch now.
***
I sat up and stretched my back. My eyes strained to the sunset. I closed the composition book I was writing in, its color darker in the fleeting sunlight. I put it back among my possessions in an old crate next to my bed roll and AR-15. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and looked at my wife. Her high cheek bones cast a shadow over the rest of her face. She was asleep. I turned from her to the door. It was reinforced with folding chairs and lumber of varying lengths and types we found. My gun is always loaded, and we fortified our little home in what ways we could. We boarded up windows when we didn't need them, we knocked out the stairs to the floor below, we only go out during the day, together, and never make noise if possible. It's safer that way. You can never be too safe, that's why I won't be sleeping tonight.
I crept down the corridor and took my post at the watch man's nook as we called it. The nook was really a window seat with three large, rectangular windows overlooking the street below. Lines are tied from wall to wall, and the old clothes of the previous occupants were hung to create a little room. A wooden crate is there, large enough for a table, with a bag of glow sticks on top and a small folding chair beside. There are a few books for reading, but I never could with the light, as dim as it was. In front of the window seat is an ammo crate of various odds and ends to keep you busy, and a pair of night-vision goggles sit on top of the seat.
I checked my flashlight. It came on. I rummaged through the ammo crate for batteries. I couldn't remember the last time I changed them. I sat and got a glow stick going with a snap. I placed my gun on the crate with the carefulness of a surgeon placing his knife on the table before an operation. I got out a rag and set about cleaning my gun. I needed something to occupy my time. Maybe I'll fetch a deck of cards later. Maybe. Nights on watch are long and boring, and without the occasional game of solitaire, I might get lonely.