Journals of the Damned (Book 1) Read online

  David's body went limp, his fingers slid loosely from my neck and I was finally able to get some air.

  Allan was there, the side of his face was covered in blood. He started beating David with a piece of brass railing. The railing had been previously attached to the bottom of the bar, having been part of a footrest for those who stood while drinking and watching the showgirls gyrations.

  "He blindsided me and tied me to the foot rail. It was loose though and I got here as fast as I could. Are you OK?"

  Allan seemed more concerned about me than his own wounds. It finally came to me that Allan was trustworthy when he glanced at my naked body but didn't let his gaze linger. His sight, almost embarrassedly, went back to the prone body of David and he started kicking it as hard as he could.

  "I'm alright. Stop, Don't kill him. We need him alive for now.", I said, as soon as I could talk again.

  "No, we need to kill this piece of shit. There is no way we can let him live after what he did to us." The anger in Allan's voice was clear.

  "Oh, he will die and he will die in a fuck-load of pain. We're going to use him as bait to get out of here. Drag this piece of shit to the main stage while I get dressed and if he wakes up, knock his teeth out."

  We handcuffed David to the stripper pole on the big stage in the center of the club.

  We gathered up all our stuff and took whatever we would be able to carry, setting it all up by the rear door.

  When David awoke he was still drunk and stated screaming obscenities at us, demanding to know what we were going to do. We stripped him completely naked, not so much for the psychological effect, but because it was easier to go through his pockets and search him for what he stole from us. I think he figured out the basics of our plan when we turned on all the lights and shined every spotlight we could on him.

  David started pleading and crying, begging for our forgiveness saying it was the booze that made him do those things.

  I reminded David that we had pleaded before too, and he had laughed at us.

  I feel absolutely no remorse for feeding David to the zeds as we made our escape.

  I yelled "Now!", to Allan, signaling for him to open the front doors, letting the undead pour inside.

  As Allan ran past David (who was wide eyed with terror, seeing what was about to befall him), the hungering dead stopped chasing Allan and went straight for David.

  As David started to scream in the anguish of being eaten alive, I tossed one of the grenades out the back door. The blast cleared those few zeds from the area who were too slow to make their way to the front before we had to run past them. The explosion only killed a couple of the zeds, but it did knock the others down and stunned them long enough for us to escape.

  David was still screaming as we hopped over the brick wall behind the club and made our cautious way to the deserted Firehouse where we are now.

  We'll stay here as long as we can but there isn't much food here. At least we're free of David. I'm looking forward to being able to get some sleep again. There are no cannibalistic monsters beating down the doors here, the quiet is beautiful.

  Thursday, November 22, 2012

  In the past week, here in the Firehouse, Allan and I have settled down into a routine of sorts. Without David around we are both much more relaxed, or as relaxed as any sane person can be when the dead scour the earth to devour the living.

  The building itself is bigger than it looks from the street. The first floor consists of a large bay, now empty of fire trucks, and a reception room with a couple of small offices and a single restroom. The oversized roll up doors that give entry to the bay are sturdy but as an extra precaution I have locked them in place. I don't want either me or Allan to accidently hit the wrong switch (they're located right next to the bay's light switches) and have them unexpectedly open. The single ground floor window and the reception door have been covered with thick plywood. The second floor consists of a small kitchen, a little recreation room, a toilet and locker room with showers and a bunkroom. The single window on the second floor, in the kitchen, faces to the rear of the building. Although the kitchen window wasn't covered with plywood, it was a pain to get into. We had to climb up a drain pipe to the bay roof and lean over the side of the building to force the lone, uncovered window open and crawl through. The whole rear yard of the building is completely covered in pavement and fenced in with an eight feet high, razor wire topped fence.

  I would have loved it if there were a fire truck in the bay. The pure size, power and weight of the thing would have made an excellent vehicle to drive in. I could run over the undead that were unlucky enough to get in my way with impunity. It would also be easy to push any smaller vehicle blocking the road out of the way.

  As it is, this place has yielded up some very useful items. Bolt cutters, axes, and machetes to name a few.

  When we first arrived the kitchen was almost bare of any food at all. We have since restocked the cupboards with whatever we could find in the neighboring houses. The surrounding houses provided slim pickings, requiring multiple forays into the abandoned buildings for what little we have now. The lack of provisions in the area showed how critical the food shortage actually was. Even if the Scarlet hadn't risen, there would have been massive death and rioting as the populace slowly starved to death.

  In the rec room there is a big collection of DVD's which has, gratefully, given us the opportunity to enjoy some entertainment. The chance to stop our thoughts from endlessly dwelling on our situation has proved a godsend. We covered the kitchen window with multiple black garbage bags to keep any possibility of light from the TV escaping. I don't know how necessary it actually was to do that, but better safe than sorry. I even went so far as to go outside while Allan had the TV on to make sure there was no noticeable light or sound to alert any passersby, whether they be the living or the walking dead. We keep the volume way down, forcing us to sit close to the set but neither of us minds doing so in the least.

  Allan and I have been taking turns going out on scavenging runs. There is a large map of the area in the bay, even showing the individual lots. We mark where we raided on the map, so that the person who has to go out the next day doesn't waste time searching a building the other had already looted.

  Allan goes out, and he's obviously scared of doing so. He does anyways, just as I do. He'll go out and check out a handful of nearby places, coming back in an hour or two. I go out and spend up to six hours exploring, actually enjoying it. I find I enjoy being away from the firehouse and Allan not because I don't like him, but because I need to have a break from the close confines. How do I explain it? You know those couples that not only live together but also work together? That is not me. I could never handle that. I don't mind my own company and I need time to myself. They say familiarity breeds contempt but it's not that. Sometimes, after I've filled my pack with all that I can carry, I still don't go immediately back to the firehouse. Once, after seeing the lonely pictures and hubris of the lives of families now shattered and dead I didn't leave because I broke down in tears and cried. I didn't want anyone, especially Allan, to see me crying. I have to stay strong around others, letting no emotions escape and show how weak I really feel. Mainly though, when I take those breaks, I find I can more detachedly think about the situation and make plans if things change.

  I've gotten pretty good at wielding the bayonet on the M16. I keep it nice and sharp and it does a good job of sending the undead to their final rest. I can thrust it through an eye socket, through the mouth or upwards under the jaw, forcing the steel blade deep through the skull and into the soft brain. So far I haven't had to fire a single round.

  I came across what had to be an assisted living facility. Not a place for old people in their advanced age, more of a "half-way" house for those with mental problems. A place for those afflicted with schizophrenia, personality disorders and other ailments of the mind that didn't actually require them to be locked up in an standard facility. The fact is that those unfo
rtunate people, while not suffering so badly as to be institutionalized, still needed help just to cope with everyday life. There was a ton of meds, which I didn't take, and rules posted on the walls. The paper work in a room turned office confirmed my thoughts about the house. The place was empty, not one zed was inside. That was a little unusual, the majority of houses seemed to have at least one of the rotted things inside. In a room on a second floor I found a makeshift altar of sorts. It kind of gave me the creeps. There were pictures of Jesus Christ and the Madonna hanging on the walls. The walls were covered with hand-drawn crosses and prayers and entries from the bible. There was nothing outwardly sinister about the room but it gave me the creeps thinking of someone desperately praying, while suffering with insanity, to a God that no longer cared.

  Prominently displayed in the center of the little altar (a table covered with candles, rosary beads and necklaces with crosses and crucifixes), I found this single hand written page. I have placed it here in my journal, between the pages. I keep it because it touched something inside me. I became depressed for a while after reading it and it took some time for me to regain my composure before I could go back to the firehouse and Allan.

  "Dear God forgive me of my sins. The demons have been hounding me, speaking filth and lies into my mind ever since I was thirteen. I know that they have been trying to get me to turn away from you, trying to get me to commit the sins that would lead to my damnation. I know, and ask your forgiveness, that I have blasphemed many times. I have fornicated and used drugs and alcohol. I have dishonored my mother and father and told many lies. I have stolen and broken most of your commandments. Please have pity on me, oh lord. I have struggled with the demons that constantly insult me and tell me things I should never hear. Nobody has ever believed me when I tell them the voices I hear are real. They think I'm crazy, but who wouldn't be insane with these wicked devils and their horrible whisperings?

  At first I thought that what was happening was real, but now I know it can't be. The unseen ones, who have secret names, have been laughing at me and telling me that everything and everyone is dead. That you, the Holy Spirit, are responsible for this. I know you're not. I know that this is all an illusion. I know for certain that I died when I got sick before all of this madness started happening. I know I died and am in purgatory. It must be purgatory because there are no flames and the devils are still only voices. Thank you for not sending me to hell.

  The hellish voices in my head have turned into the clamoring of legions. They are so loud and insistent that I can barely think. I know you want me to do this because the devils want me to hide from their minions and suffer in this house for eternity. I know they don't want me to face my fear and pay for my multitude of sins. I know that I will not be able to escape this purgatory until I give up my flesh and all the world. I am so afraid of having to feel so much pain. I know Jesus suffered for days on the cross, leaving me to think, and be thankful for, the fact that I will have to face only a few minutes of agony. I will let the agents of Satan devour my flesh and leave its wickedness behind. This life has not been easy for me God. Please have mercy on my unclean soul. I am ready now. I am going outside now to sacrifice my sinful flesh and come to you pure, free from this world."

  Wednesday, December 12, 2012

  I was so distracted by what I had done that I didn't realize some of the flesh hungry zombies had followed me back to the firehouse.

  Almost as soon as I entered our sanctuary Allan knew something had happened. He asked me what was wrong and if I wanted to talk about it but I declined. We had both seen some really horrible stuff and he didn't press me when I said that I didn't want to talk about it.

  I hadn't even finished putting away my gear and the assorted canned goods I had acquired when we both heard the sound of the locked gate in the fence being assaulted.

  We both went out the back door to the paved training area and saw the handful of undead that had followed me. I apologized to Allan, who gave me a momentary quizzical look. Allan knew that whatever had happened had thrown me off, I had never led the undead back here before. There was only a handful of the abominations, we took care of them with pickaxes through the fence. We stabbed their rotting skulls with the sharp pick ends when they put their faces close to the fence, so that no others would notice them and join them in trying to break down the gate.

  I may not have wanted to tell Allan what happened, not because he wouldn't understand, not because he would think less of me but because I feel full of guilt. I will eventually tell him what happened but not right now. Telling him of my mistake would feel too much like I was confessing a sin. Maybe what I did was a sin but it was an accident. My uncle's words about making sure nobody was in the line of fire before I shot keeps ringing in my ears. The thing is, I didn't know he was in my line of fire. I was only trying to help him.

  I do feel a need to write this down in this journal. Sometimes it's like this journal is part of my secret heart. While I may not be telling another person what I feel, the Gods know. This is my secret confession.

  In the past few weeks we had actually stopped going on our daily runs into the surrounding area, having already scavenged what we could. Allan no longer went out except for maybe once a week or so. I still felt the need to go out at least a couple of times a week, simply to break the monotony.

  Today I came across a house that had been surrounded by a small mob of the parasitic undead puppets. I had entered the house across the street from it by means of a broken window on the back side of the house. After I made sure the house was clear I went and carefully checked the street side by peeking out through the windows and scanning the area.

  I figured that there had to be a survivor inside the boarded up house, otherwise there wouldn't be a mob of hungering dead outside trying to break in. From where I was, the place looked like it would be breached soon. The upper part of the plywood boarding the main window was already gone and corners of the plywood covering the rest of the windows were broken off. I was sure I saw cracks in the flimsy wood covering the door and it seemed to bow and flex with the constant assault.

  Silently I crept around the house I was in and made sure that the yard was fenced and I had a clear escape route for what I was about to do.

  I had been wanting to get some target practice in with the M16 but hadn't been able to do much, being afraid to draw the attention of the ravenous dead. This time I wanted to draw their attention. If I was going to help whomever was trapped I had to kill or lead the nightmares away. I counted their numbers and found there was seventeen of them. There weren't any stray zeds that I could see, all of them in the area had been previously drawn to that house. My plan was to start sniping them through the large picture window in the living room. When they reached the window and entered the house to get me I guessed I would be able to pick off a few more as they negotiated climbing in. From there I would go into the back yard and pick off a few more as they filed through the back door. Then I would hop the fence and pick off more of them as they would inevitably, clumsily, fall more than climb over the low fence. If there were any more of the living dead and they continued to follow me I would run from them and make a loop around the neighborhood and come at them from behind, forcing them back through the obstacle course of fences, doorways and windows to get at me.

  It worked like I planned. My first shot missed. They stopped assaulting the house and waited for another noise to figure out where the sound was coming from. I took two of them out before they pin-pointed my location. Some of the ghoulish walking cadavers started towards me immediately and I took them out quickly, only missing a few of my shots as they chaotically staggered towards me. Their speed, in that distinctive shambling gait of theirs, would be for me a slow jog. Some of the zombies almost hesitated in coming towards me, as if they were struggling to decide whether they should abandon the prey secured in the house for the prey in the house across the street. Once they caught a glimpse of me and my warm flesh they gave up on tryin
g to break into the house and joined the rest of their brethren in trying to catch and eat me.

  By the time I had to jump the fence there were only three of them left. The undead have almost no coordination and have huge problems with negotiating even simple obstacles. It was easy to finish the last of them off. My plan seemed to be going smoothly.

  By the time I got back to the street, there were only two new zombies drawn by the gunfire. They were both coming to investigate the noise and they were still both a couple of houses away. It was good practice at medium range on a moving target. At no point was I ever in any real trouble but it was quite a rush.

  I called out to whoever was in the house that it was safe now. Nobody answered, leading me to think at first that the zeds had converged on the house mistakenly or that whoever was holed up inside had died while they were trying to bust in.

  A small window in the back was free from plywood. It was high up and it could only be a bathroom window. It was clear that plywood had originally been placed there but it had been removed. This was where the survivor or survivors had made his or her entries and exits. The window was locked from the inside so they still had to be in there. I yelled for the occupant to come to the window but I was met with only silence. I had risked my ass getting this far and now I had to know if there actually was someone in the house or not. I busted out the window and waited a tense couple of minutes, waiting for any sign from inside.