Day 403

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Kurt drove out to the edge of town looking for gas to pump. He arrived at the old Shell station, the yellow sign faded to light brown. The gas prices were long gone. He had seen them blown in different directions, some numbers across the street, others a few miles down the road. He operated the manual pump the other survivors had installed months ago only to find it was dry. He went to the other pump. Very little. The next one and all the others had the same result. He crossed the street to the next station. Also dry.

Kurt looks at his watch and stares back at the road. Dusk was coming fast and he didn't have enough gas to get back all the way. He looks around, hoping to remember another gas nearby. Then he kicks the dirt. Even if he found another gas station, there was no gaurantee it would have a better result than these two. He thought both of them still had plenty, but he was wrong there and if he found one, how long would he have to get back? He'd be doomed if it was dry also. He wasn't familiar with the houses in this side of town. They could be swarming with dead. Even if he did find one secure, which he didn't know if there were any, he lacked the supplies for a firefight through the night.

"Better off running," he tells himself, trying to convince himself he had only one bad choice to make. He would have to ride the back as far as he could, which he guessed was about five or ten of twenty miles. He had to stay on the highway, since it was the widest road with least abandoned cars. The rest of the way he'd have to run, abandoning everything but flashlights, assault rifle, and ammo. He had the two glocks on each side and the handaxe strapped to his ankle, although he didn't like to imagine the scenarios that would lead to him using it. He had another six clips for the glocks on his belt. He could carry the extra clips for the assault rifle, but decides it would be too much. If he would go through the 30 rounds for the first clip, he would rather ditch the rifle and make a run for the rest of the way.

The bike ran out of gas on University Street, two miles from his turn onto Starr Avenue. It would be two miles on University, then running along the side of the field (running through the field was out of the question as the tall grass made it possible for any of the dead to be right upon him without him knowing). On a clear day without weapons, he could cover it within a half hour. Now, however, it was dusk and the dead were starting to moan and stir. The sunlight wasn't in their way to dry out their eyes. They could see in the dark as Kurt had figured out a long time ago. It was cooler too, which was why they avoided open areas during the day. Now they were coming out. The only living person in the city, the motor attracted all of them. The smell of gasoline and Kurt's sweat aroused them. They have no brain-function except for their senses and a hunger, for which is their sole focus.

Kurt left his jacket and helmet and made his dash, rifle in hand pointing downward as he ran. Hints of movement start in the corner of his eye. One coming out of a building's broken window. Another crawling out from behind a long-abandoned jeep. He tries to reassure himself that if he keeps running, he can outrun them until he's home. But as the ones right around him are starting to come out, along the road he sees more. They'll still in the buildings, slowly leaving, approaching the curbs one-by-one, getting closer to the street.

The adrenaline has kicked in, but so did the weight of the guns. This isn't his early morning jog, it's at the end of a long day. Blood starts to set in his feet from not laying down all day. With each step, more weighs his feet down. The dead are at the curbs now. An entire town zeroing in on him with hunger.

"Just follow the striped line," Kurt mutters to himself. "Any of them get too close to the line, shoot them."

Ahead of him, one walked directly along the line, going straight for Kurt. His mouth opens, releasing a low growl. The spit and drool are green, oozing down.

"NO!" Kurt raised the rifle. He squeezed the trigger before he was finished aiming. What he would have hit with one shot, he fired five rounds into. None of them landed like he intended. He stops, focuses the sight, and shoots a direct hit into the center of the face. The dead falls. Kurt jumps over him.


If any of the dead weren't chasing him, the gunshots made certain they would.

To the sides of the street, the dead form lines and walls enclosing. "Focus, Kurt," he tells himself. "This is happening. You can still get out of it." His first sign of hope came from straight ahead. He sees the burnt-out stoplight at the intersection of the street. It seems it has forever to run on, but what he had ran was gone already. It's marker to his progress.

He looks behind him. He guesses a good 30 seconds until they reach him, but not a second more. He gets down to one knee and focuses on his aim. "One one thousand, two one thousand," he fires a shot, "four one thousand, five one thousand," he fires another one, clearing the street from left to right. "Seven one thousand," his aim improves. "Nine one thousand, ten one thousand." He uses the rapid fire through the rest of the clip. It takes two seconds to empty the rest of the clip. Instead of aiming for single shots in the skull, he paces to empty the clip taking out the kneecaps of the ones on the right as he'd be turning left, cutting across the bank parking lot.

He takes a look behind him and falls back. One of the dead is already upon him, hands out. Kurt tries to push him away with his rifle. The dead grabs it and Kurt pulls the strap off, running, leaving the rifle in the dead's hands. He had 20 seconds, not 30. Running much faster without the rifle, with the other guns still holstered. He wipes his forehead. Sweat pours down his face. Had he made the mistake by a second more, it would be one of them by now.

Around the corner, he realizes how lucky he is. To the right are a few houses, but mostly with fences. He can hear the dead rubbing against the fence. They went straight for him and therefore didn't realize going around the fence or ever realizing the fence might even be there. He'd have to run through the street alongside the rows of houses, which is where more of his luck came in. There were no cars for him to dodge, no cars to worry about a dead being around the corner of. He runs on, his mouth dry, his sweat pouring down, his guns ready.

* * * * *

Kurt makes it back to Garner and doesn't rest until the locks are set on his door. On the dining table next to his bedroom, as though laughing at him, is his sawed-off shotgun and World War One trench spade, either of which would have been ideal for his run. He laughs back. He collapses onto his bed. "Tomorrow, Kurt" he tells himself, "is the first day of the rest of your life." He thought about how careless he had been. If he hadn't let his tank get so low, he wouldn't have had to go farther out of town for the gas stations. If he had known either gas station was out of gas, he would have driven back home without a problem and take a whole day to walk to get gas without problems. The rest of the world led him to his problems, but almost killing himself tonight was entirely his fault.

Day 400

Kurt drives the bike up to a house and walks up to the front door. The entire outer wall is lined with steel sheets. He checks the bolts keeping one of the sheets in place, then opens each of the front door locks. Eight locks with eight different keys. Once inside the door, he checks the gas on the generator. About two hours until empty. He pulls down the remote from table immediately inside. He glances at his watch and sets the stopwatch. He puts up a ladder and climbs to the second floor roof. He points the remote into the window and presses the power button, then the play button. The house bursts into music, echoing down the silent neighborhood. The city of silence gives low groans beneath the music. A few stir awake and go towards it.


The Spice Girls drown out the city.


"Sorry," Kurt says to himself as much as he says to the dead that will come to the music. "As though being dead wasn't bad enough."

Kurt rides the bike to the movie theater. He walks upstairs with a flashlight, two dangling from his hips so he can see side-to-side, one in his hand strapped to his wrist, and a fourth on his rifle. He checks each corner and slowly goes along behind the machines. He locks this place up tight, knowing a dead up here would lead to a mistake he couldn't get away from. A creak fills the dark hallway of projectors. He raises his rifle, spins, and flips on the light in a single movement. Is a practiced and he is aimed and shining before he can recognize the sound.

"Building is getting old, Kurt. That's all." He turns on the projector and lights. He walks downstairs into the theater and pads the doors with mattresses. The lobby, exits, and even the walls have an extra layer of sheets. The movie plays, completely silenced from the outside world.

Kurt double-checks the entrance as he makes himself some popcorn during the previews.

Day 399

- If you are new to this blog, go here first: http://whatthedawnbrings.blogspot.com/2008/11/welcome-and-what-this-is.html -

Kurt holsters the two pistols on his legs and swings the M-16 assault rifle over his shoulder. On the back of his motorcycle hangs a shotgun. The desicion to keep the shotgun was in case he is ever in a wreck, immobilized, the one weapon he would want would be the shotgun. Kurt revs the motor and hits the kickstand.

The streets are lined with cars, some from wrecks, others just never moved when people fled in panic. Some still have keys in them. None of the buildings have lights on. The sunrise casts shadows against the town, giving it a zebra skin. He turns on Main Street and parks in the middle of the street. He takes a look around, in every direction, and seeing no one, he walks up to the sidewalk.

The building's sign states: Morning Glory Yoga Studio. The windows are missing, broken in the chaos earlier, swept up by Kurt months later. The sunlight shines in against the still untouched wooden floor.

Kurt walks in, the rifle in his hands, careful to check behind every corner and closet, making sure he is alone. He pulls a mat from the side by the way, sets down his rifle, and lays the mat on the floor next to the gun. He takes off his shirt, his shoes, his socks, his pants, everything but his boxers and starts off the day with stretches and a Sun Salutation posture.

* * * * *

At the Hastings, Kurt parks in the grass before the actual parking lot. From the grass, there are no cars around, and he can easily access any direction on the road. It still surprises him how many cars were left at Hastings. Most of them must have been looters, he thinks to himself. He doesn't bother with the door, but walks in where the windows once were, staying in the open. He's pushed shelves and counters and registers out of his way a long time ago, allowing plenty of open space around him as he walks with his rifle, looking down each aisle he passes.

He places DVDs back where he had set his American Flags, marking the place. House, M.D. Season 3 is set back and Season 4 is pulled from the shelf. Alfred Hitchcock is set back and the next one taken. He puts back Raging Bull and looks on what's next from "Roger Ebert's Great List," found in the book section of the store. He has finished the series Ally McBeal and picks up Boston Public.

In the distance behind him, glass cracks. Kurt raises the rifle and walks backwards to the middle of the aisle, aiming. He turns around and aims at the other end. He creeps down the aisle towards the middle of the store (more open). He hops from one side to the other, seeing around as much of the corners of the aisle as he can before going into the open. He checks around his feet, then around the knocked over table where DVDs are scattered about. He checks farther away and slowly gives his attention to the source of the noise, the dead standing at the front of the store, just inside the window.

"Must have fallen in," Kurt says to himself. He keeps the rifle up, looking around and be careful there aren't more about. He scans each aisle as he walks, circling every table, looking for places they could hide and avoids passing them unchecked.

Before the dead, he pulls the spade from his belt and thrusts it into the dead's head, where a piece of skin is missing, cracking the weak skull and pushing into the soft brain. He dead goes limp. Kurt pulls on the spade and it gets tangled in the long hair of the dead. "Damn hippie," Kurt replies.

He raises his rifle again. There are dead in the parking lot, scattered and cirling about. Only a few of them, but they are there. "Dammit." He keeps his rifle on them as he walks sideways to the door. Getting out, he lowers the rifle and pulls the spade, staying close to the building as the dead slowly notice him, one by one. They turn and start to wonder towards him. He is already running, and they are not close to his motorcycle. He revs the engine and speeds away.

Going back up North Street, there are more of them, scattered around. One is under the shade in a big tree before the church. Another two, wearing Whataburger uniforms, turn to watch him go by out of the window as he passes the faded orange and white building.

As Kurt drives up to the Garner tower, there is another one trapped in the bear trap, clawing at the ground. He carried himself away from the traps until the leg gave way, then his arm was caught in a beartrap. When that limb didn't give away, he dragged the trap, with the other traps it was chained to, ten feet. The trapped dead's nails were detached, slowly worn off by the clawing against hot concrete.

Kurt stares at the dead, clawing to move on. It might have been there since just after Kurt left, clawing away after losing limbs and being trapped a second time. It had lost its nails and clawed on, now trying to get away by dragging its body by exposed fingertips. The skin was gone, and so was muscle. Bare bone against asphalt, leaving four bloody lines where the fingers stretched and curled, stretched and curled, stretches and curls in a vain attempt to move on past the traps.

"I hope my spirit is like yours," Kurt tells the crawler. "Cause we're going to be spending some time together and it don't look like either of us are going away easily." He pulls the spade and impales the skull. The crawler stops.

Journal: Day 396

It has been three months since I ended Richard, making this thirteen months since the killing started. Now clearly past the one year mark, I have to start preparing to survive long-term on my own. Richard was my safety net and I his. I worry I’ll trip, hit my head, and wake up at night surrounded by the dead. Short of wearing a helmet everywhere, I need to prepare for worse case scenarios. Jogging, staying fit, having the spare food, beartraps, and so on can only do so much.

A hurricane hit, category 5. It devastated the Texas and Louisiana coast. Then there were reports of mass violent crimes. Violent crimes led to horror stories that the dead were walking the earth in the devastated areas. People just blew it off as horror stories formed from the mass looting and crimes. Then the dead hit the national guard. Domestic defense had to be regrouped, but by then it was hitting Wisconsin, Nevada, and Virginia. It crossed the oceans and that was the last I’ve heard of anything.

The dead’s numbers were massive. The first seven months were a nightmare of unending. We had to fight and burn our way through. Eventually, we covered our tracks to the tower with chemicals to throw off the smell. That gave us time to set up the beartraps. After the first seven months, we went from worrying about the dead to worrying about supplies. The next two we lost people trying to get supplies, fighting over them, and lack of any sign of society outside of us led to more than a few suicides among the only survivors. Eventually, it was just me and Richard.

Now it has been a month of just me, Kurt Conklin, the only living resident of Nacogdoches, TX, staying at the Garner Apartments, the tallest structure in the town. Every day, after my jog, I stand at the top of the tower and look for any sign of life besides my own. It has been a month of consistently no sign.

Day 395

Kurt wakes up to the sound of the alarm clock beeping at him. He opens his eyes and darts them around the room. Clapping twice, the lights turn on. The room is empty except for him and the mess he leaves. He stares at the wall mirror, looking not at himself, but below him, at the empty space beneath the bed. Seeing he is still alone, he pulls the gun out from under his pillow and puts it on the nightstand. He looks at each of the doors in the room, making sure they are still shut.

He gets up and rubs his eyes with the side of his hand. “Nightmares, I tell ya.” He looks up and down a panel of lights with rows of green lights. “All green.” He looks at the second panel. “Green all night.”

He takes a shower.

He puts on jogging pants and ties his shoes, unties them, and then reties them with the detail of a sailor. He loads a pistol, switches the safety off and back on, then puts it in the holster strapped to his leg. He repeats the motion, attaching another pistol to the strap on his other leg. He practices pulling the gun out, closing his eyes and removing both of them single-handedly, one at a time. He pushes the strap forward with his thumb and pulls the pistol out, then practices it with the other hand, other pistol. He’s quick on his first try with each. There are four clips of ammo on his belt. He puts on sunglasses and walks down thirteen flights of stairs to the lobby.
He picks up a spade leaning against the front desk. It is an arm-length pole with a sharp, rounded blade attached to the end. On the other end is a handle it can be pushed from.
He goes out the doors carrying the spade. He walks carefully, the ground having his complete attention. At the bottom of the steps are beartraps. There are five rows of them, spread across, circling the tower. Will walks in a zig-zag as he takes the route his knows to avoid the traps. Once on the other side, he circles the building with the spade, looking at the traps. After his circle, he sets the spade down, sets his watch to time his run.

“Three miles, let’s get it in twenty-seven minutes this time.”

He looks out at the open day, the bright dawn. In the distance, a bird chirps, the wind rustles the leaves, and Will swears he can hear his own eyes blink. Against the silence, the beep of his watch is a gunshot.

Thirty minutes later, he will stop again at the parking lot, before his sea of beartraps and hit his watch again. He will catch his breath, look out into the day, pick up the spade, zig-zag back into
his tower, and know he will not see another living soul today.

Welcome and What This Is

Hello.

This blog is part of a literary expert. At least once a week I submit a post, either third person narrative or part of the diary of the main character, Kurt. I won't tell you much as that is boring. You can read it and discover the world as Jason goes through it. What I will tell you is this genre is horror, it involves zombies, and at least at the start, there is only one survivor. I got this inspiration, aside from being a fan of George A. Romero, from staying alone in Garner apartments on the Stephen F. Austin State University campus during the Christmas break after watching I Am Legend. Nacogdoches (the setting and town Stephen F. is at) is a ghost town during the break when the college students are gone, so I had much to inspire me and it never really left. I slowly realized this is something I could start on and write forever.

If you are going to read this regularly, please use the "Blogger Follower" widget on the right menu. This will help me keep track of the size of my readership and evaluate how much time this blog is worth committing to on a weekly basis.

I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave comments.

Thanks,
R. Neely