The most important event in my life, and if anyone asks, all I can say is, “I was asleep. I think I might have been lucid dreaming… Or I was just dreaming that I was lucid dreaming. If it was a lucid dream, I was doing some weird ****, like hitching a ride to the arcade with a Mexican, flooding the parking lot, and changing the color of my shirt just because I was self-aware in a dream state.”
Or, just simply, “I was asleep.”
That lacks the necessary depth for the event, so I’ll add some spice. “I was asleep while my family was being eaten.”
Now, how is that for a kicker?
-
It was three weeks ago, the best I can figure, although some time ago I stopped counting days and started counting hours instead. The population of the creatures was so extreme, increased so exponentially, that surviving a day seemed impossible, so like most American’s, I just lowered my standards and hoped for the best. It’s done me a moderate stead thus-far, but I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to hold out at the given rate of creation.
The mess started three weeks ago, like I said. A few people claimed it was a virus, spread from a lab. They were eaten. A few other people claimed it was an act of God. They too were eaten. A final third group said that we should welcome our new overlords with open arms. Their arms were torn off before they were eaten.
That’s a long way of saying I’m not quite sure how in the hell these things came around, nor am I too interested. Things have changed to the point where if you worry too much about where you were, you’d think too much about the people you left, and then you would fry yourself with guilt. It happened to me, once, when I was running through the brush outside of my house as it burned fondly in the distance. I stopped in my tracks, taking a look back. I thought about crying, but I heard the sound behind me and my legs started again. I didn’t really think about it since.
If you’re walking down the road and you see an RV with one light on, knock three times, wait for an answer, and be prepared with the new form of currency: Bullets. But these places are pretty trustworthy. You give them something, they’ll hold you for the night. If some of the things come knocking, they’ll take off down the road until you’re in the clear, shoot things off the roof. You might wake up in a place you’ve never been before, but this kind of living puts the “venture” in “adventure.” Or something.
At this point, you’re probably scratching your head as to what exactly is going on, but I don’t think I need to go into that, really. All you need to know is that if you go outside, you’re dead. You’re eaten, partially, and then you get back up. I’m not going to spell it out for you, because the word is ridiculous. Ridiculous, but fitting.
Did you know that you can drink your own urine three times before it becomes so diluted with pollutants that it officially becomes hazardous? Something like that will save your life.
It did mine.
-
I woke up in a RV one morning that was going over the state line into Virginia. I had fifteen minutes to get my **** together, check my wallet, and prep my weapons before the RV would drop me off somewhere. Behind the wheel of the monstrosity that was cruising up the latter half of the destroyed I-95 was a buxom brunette, who for some reason was driving topless. Her husband was in the seat next to her, polishing a shotgun, and gazing absentmindedly out the window before spitting onto the barrel of the gun.
I pulled the gun from my backpack and checked the clip. Full. Box of bullets? Full, minus the twenty fare I had to pay. If they didn’t have a pistol, they were planning on picking one up soon. I stood, tucking the gun into my waistband and sitting in the back. The man took a look back and removed a package from his pocket.
The contents were yellow and spongy, but also had a white consistency to them. I didn’t want to ask, and I wasn’t particularly hungry.
“Those things have a shelf-life of about fifty years, smooshed up or not,” he said over his shoulder.
“The creatures?”
“What? No. That Twinkie.”
“Oh. Thank you. Where are you dropping me off?”
“Broad Street, Richmond. Unless you’d care to stay?”
I thought about it, briefly, before thinking back on my family.
“No, I’ll take my leave there.”
We rode in silence, dodging burned out cars and the shadows of the ghouls that wandered the streets. The RV was in desperate need of new shocks, but I doubt the occupants really cared. They drove up the Fan, named for the cobblestone streets that fan out from the center of the city. The buildings we drove past were empty, sunlight streaming through the windows. In the distance, I could see the mock Twin-Towers that used to serve as a banking center before the mess started. The left tower was on fire, black smoke pumping into the atmosphere, a rapist to the pure white blanket of clouds that covered the horizon.
Those buildings were at the far end of Broad Street. I checked around the RV for a map of the area, but there was nothing, save for an inventory sheet of items the couple had picked up, including rings off of dead people. I shuddered, thinking very quickly on the Nazi’s and the war criminals during World War II and how they profited from the deaths of many, before turning my eyes to the more pressing issue of finding a place to hide out for the day in the city.
The left tower, Louie, was obviously out. There were only a limited number of ways the scenario could play out; a person set the fire as a signal, and is alive, or a person set the fire as a signal and was eaten. Or the ghouls chewed through some wiring and set the building on fire, or there was a last stand taking place high atop. Or the Green Berets were in there, waiting for me to come through the door before blasting off on a rocket-ship to space while the whole thing blew over down below.
The right tower, Richie, was a more obvious choice, but it was a little too obvious. If a surviving gun-enthusiast was inside, they would shoot first and ask questions never. If I was inside, and a surviving gun-enthusiast barged in, they would shoot first and not ask questions.
I needed some place remote.
-
The RV pulled off into the distance, leaving me all by my onesies to walk down the broken street in a search for shelter. At the far end, while Richie and Louie sat behind me, I found a broken out train-station that used to transport a good deal of tobacco to the west and south for placement in cigarettes. The building was a half-circle, the entire upper section composed glass – I shouldn’t say glass – composed of window-frames, while the lower section, made of brick, stood intact.
I removed my flashlight from my back pocket, turned it on, and made my way through the wooden double-door. The light coming in through the window was limited to about twenty feet, but when you enter a building, you don’t charge. You sit, and you listen. If you hear so much as a rat, you turn around, you find a new building, because for all you know, that rat might not be a rat and the building might not be near as empty as you think.
But there was nothing. Nothing, save for the wooden stairs that led down into the main waiting area. To the left sat a desk, unused in these times, and behind, a door to an office. The office held a broken desk sitting in the corner. Someone had tried to barricade themselves in the room, but it hadn’t worked. The ghouls had come and gone, taking the occupant of the room and leaving behind his broken desk.
The desk made excellent kindling inside the small room. The smoke pouring outside of the windows wouldn’t be enough to attract the attention of any unsavories, but it would be enough to make any passer-by raise their eyebrows. And I had the benefit of protective territory; in the office, I could see a gun-nut before they came in and have a clear shot.
But it wasn’t a gun-nut that walked through the door. The frame of the person was small and frail. Small, frail, and toting what looked to be a double-barreled shotgun with a flashlight taped on the end.
“Are you a gun-nut?” I yelled from the office. The light spun quickly, trembling, before settling on the office.
“No. Are you a gun-nut?”
“No.”
There was a pause as she jogged down the stairs.
“Are you a person?”
“Me? Yeah.”
“You’re not bit or anything, are you?”
“No. I just started the fire, and –“
“I’ll shoot you if you are. I’ll shoot you in the head and then leave because the other things might hear.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
There was a pause as she settled against the wall. She was wearing jeans – hip huggers, looked like, and a torn white t-shirt tucked into her waistband. Her hair was completely covered by a do-rag, but her face was smeared with dirt and blood.
“Sup, mama?”
She scoffed.
“I’m not going to do anything for you, if that’s what –“
“Oh, don’t worry about me. My interests lie elsewhere.”
She closed her eyes briefly as I stood, and left the room, exploring the rest of the station.
-
“I found it,” I told her, but she was a shade of her former self. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened; she had blood all over her face; it was a good chance some seeped into her eye or her mouth and she had no idea until –
BANG
it was too late.
What I had found was a cargo train. The lights came back on after I fiddled
the breaker for a few minutes. The train looked like it was ready to head west. The dining car was filled with foods that shouldn’t parish. I set the train to leave so soon as I got the girl –
It was a pity. She would have made a lovely wife, I think.
-
The train is going slowly. There was an occupant on here; alive, well, and partially out of their mind. It was an old man wearing a conductors outfit, but when I asked him about train speeds and variables, he just looked at me. I think he stole it off of someone.
“So, old man, where does this train run?”
“To the end of the line.”
Reasonable answer.
Three hours into the trip, the train stopped and the last car was tipped, breaking the coupling. The ghouls were outside, the old man in the last car. I ran from the dining car, commandeering a cart of food towards the conductor’s car. I slammed the door, leaned out the window, and blasted the coupling with the shotgun I… procured this morning.
The train lurched forward. When the track ends, I’ll walk, but I don’t know where. I’ve never been good for thinking ahead, but right now, the end of the line is looking mighty nice, wherever it may be.
I wonder, when I get to the end of the line, will I see my family again? The old conductor? The pretty young woman I shot? The couple that gave me a lift in their RV? At the end of the line, will the world be right?
I don’t think so… But I’m willing to find out.
Or, just simply, “I was asleep.”
That lacks the necessary depth for the event, so I’ll add some spice. “I was asleep while my family was being eaten.”
Now, how is that for a kicker?
-
It was three weeks ago, the best I can figure, although some time ago I stopped counting days and started counting hours instead. The population of the creatures was so extreme, increased so exponentially, that surviving a day seemed impossible, so like most American’s, I just lowered my standards and hoped for the best. It’s done me a moderate stead thus-far, but I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to hold out at the given rate of creation.
The mess started three weeks ago, like I said. A few people claimed it was a virus, spread from a lab. They were eaten. A few other people claimed it was an act of God. They too were eaten. A final third group said that we should welcome our new overlords with open arms. Their arms were torn off before they were eaten.
That’s a long way of saying I’m not quite sure how in the hell these things came around, nor am I too interested. Things have changed to the point where if you worry too much about where you were, you’d think too much about the people you left, and then you would fry yourself with guilt. It happened to me, once, when I was running through the brush outside of my house as it burned fondly in the distance. I stopped in my tracks, taking a look back. I thought about crying, but I heard the sound behind me and my legs started again. I didn’t really think about it since.
If you’re walking down the road and you see an RV with one light on, knock three times, wait for an answer, and be prepared with the new form of currency: Bullets. But these places are pretty trustworthy. You give them something, they’ll hold you for the night. If some of the things come knocking, they’ll take off down the road until you’re in the clear, shoot things off the roof. You might wake up in a place you’ve never been before, but this kind of living puts the “venture” in “adventure.” Or something.
At this point, you’re probably scratching your head as to what exactly is going on, but I don’t think I need to go into that, really. All you need to know is that if you go outside, you’re dead. You’re eaten, partially, and then you get back up. I’m not going to spell it out for you, because the word is ridiculous. Ridiculous, but fitting.
Did you know that you can drink your own urine three times before it becomes so diluted with pollutants that it officially becomes hazardous? Something like that will save your life.
It did mine.
-
I woke up in a RV one morning that was going over the state line into Virginia. I had fifteen minutes to get my **** together, check my wallet, and prep my weapons before the RV would drop me off somewhere. Behind the wheel of the monstrosity that was cruising up the latter half of the destroyed I-95 was a buxom brunette, who for some reason was driving topless. Her husband was in the seat next to her, polishing a shotgun, and gazing absentmindedly out the window before spitting onto the barrel of the gun.
I pulled the gun from my backpack and checked the clip. Full. Box of bullets? Full, minus the twenty fare I had to pay. If they didn’t have a pistol, they were planning on picking one up soon. I stood, tucking the gun into my waistband and sitting in the back. The man took a look back and removed a package from his pocket.
The contents were yellow and spongy, but also had a white consistency to them. I didn’t want to ask, and I wasn’t particularly hungry.
“Those things have a shelf-life of about fifty years, smooshed up or not,” he said over his shoulder.
“The creatures?”
“What? No. That Twinkie.”
“Oh. Thank you. Where are you dropping me off?”
“Broad Street, Richmond. Unless you’d care to stay?”
I thought about it, briefly, before thinking back on my family.
“No, I’ll take my leave there.”
We rode in silence, dodging burned out cars and the shadows of the ghouls that wandered the streets. The RV was in desperate need of new shocks, but I doubt the occupants really cared. They drove up the Fan, named for the cobblestone streets that fan out from the center of the city. The buildings we drove past were empty, sunlight streaming through the windows. In the distance, I could see the mock Twin-Towers that used to serve as a banking center before the mess started. The left tower was on fire, black smoke pumping into the atmosphere, a rapist to the pure white blanket of clouds that covered the horizon.
Those buildings were at the far end of Broad Street. I checked around the RV for a map of the area, but there was nothing, save for an inventory sheet of items the couple had picked up, including rings off of dead people. I shuddered, thinking very quickly on the Nazi’s and the war criminals during World War II and how they profited from the deaths of many, before turning my eyes to the more pressing issue of finding a place to hide out for the day in the city.
The left tower, Louie, was obviously out. There were only a limited number of ways the scenario could play out; a person set the fire as a signal, and is alive, or a person set the fire as a signal and was eaten. Or the ghouls chewed through some wiring and set the building on fire, or there was a last stand taking place high atop. Or the Green Berets were in there, waiting for me to come through the door before blasting off on a rocket-ship to space while the whole thing blew over down below.
The right tower, Richie, was a more obvious choice, but it was a little too obvious. If a surviving gun-enthusiast was inside, they would shoot first and ask questions never. If I was inside, and a surviving gun-enthusiast barged in, they would shoot first and not ask questions.
I needed some place remote.
-
The RV pulled off into the distance, leaving me all by my onesies to walk down the broken street in a search for shelter. At the far end, while Richie and Louie sat behind me, I found a broken out train-station that used to transport a good deal of tobacco to the west and south for placement in cigarettes. The building was a half-circle, the entire upper section composed glass – I shouldn’t say glass – composed of window-frames, while the lower section, made of brick, stood intact.
I removed my flashlight from my back pocket, turned it on, and made my way through the wooden double-door. The light coming in through the window was limited to about twenty feet, but when you enter a building, you don’t charge. You sit, and you listen. If you hear so much as a rat, you turn around, you find a new building, because for all you know, that rat might not be a rat and the building might not be near as empty as you think.
But there was nothing. Nothing, save for the wooden stairs that led down into the main waiting area. To the left sat a desk, unused in these times, and behind, a door to an office. The office held a broken desk sitting in the corner. Someone had tried to barricade themselves in the room, but it hadn’t worked. The ghouls had come and gone, taking the occupant of the room and leaving behind his broken desk.
The desk made excellent kindling inside the small room. The smoke pouring outside of the windows wouldn’t be enough to attract the attention of any unsavories, but it would be enough to make any passer-by raise their eyebrows. And I had the benefit of protective territory; in the office, I could see a gun-nut before they came in and have a clear shot.
But it wasn’t a gun-nut that walked through the door. The frame of the person was small and frail. Small, frail, and toting what looked to be a double-barreled shotgun with a flashlight taped on the end.
“Are you a gun-nut?” I yelled from the office. The light spun quickly, trembling, before settling on the office.
“No. Are you a gun-nut?”
“No.”
There was a pause as she jogged down the stairs.
“Are you a person?”
“Me? Yeah.”
“You’re not bit or anything, are you?”
“No. I just started the fire, and –“
“I’ll shoot you if you are. I’ll shoot you in the head and then leave because the other things might hear.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
There was a pause as she settled against the wall. She was wearing jeans – hip huggers, looked like, and a torn white t-shirt tucked into her waistband. Her hair was completely covered by a do-rag, but her face was smeared with dirt and blood.
“Sup, mama?”
She scoffed.
“I’m not going to do anything for you, if that’s what –“
“Oh, don’t worry about me. My interests lie elsewhere.”
She closed her eyes briefly as I stood, and left the room, exploring the rest of the station.
-
“I found it,” I told her, but she was a shade of her former self. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened; she had blood all over her face; it was a good chance some seeped into her eye or her mouth and she had no idea until –
BANG
it was too late.
What I had found was a cargo train. The lights came back on after I fiddled
the breaker for a few minutes. The train looked like it was ready to head west. The dining car was filled with foods that shouldn’t parish. I set the train to leave so soon as I got the girl –
It was a pity. She would have made a lovely wife, I think.
-
The train is going slowly. There was an occupant on here; alive, well, and partially out of their mind. It was an old man wearing a conductors outfit, but when I asked him about train speeds and variables, he just looked at me. I think he stole it off of someone.
“So, old man, where does this train run?”
“To the end of the line.”
Reasonable answer.
Three hours into the trip, the train stopped and the last car was tipped, breaking the coupling. The ghouls were outside, the old man in the last car. I ran from the dining car, commandeering a cart of food towards the conductor’s car. I slammed the door, leaned out the window, and blasted the coupling with the shotgun I… procured this morning.
The train lurched forward. When the track ends, I’ll walk, but I don’t know where. I’ve never been good for thinking ahead, but right now, the end of the line is looking mighty nice, wherever it may be.
I wonder, when I get to the end of the line, will I see my family again? The old conductor? The pretty young woman I shot? The couple that gave me a lift in their RV? At the end of the line, will the world be right?
I don’t think so… But I’m willing to find out.
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