Song of the day: “Respect” by Aretha Franklin. Awesome song, yet a bit tedious when your head keeps repeating it over and over again. Hah.
Let’s start this one a little different, shall we. It was grocery shopping day after all, and rather than share that with my habitual aaargh, I would prefer not to talk about it at all.
Night time. The wind howled overhead and in the distance, there where trees stood silent in a niche of the mountain, shadows stirred madly. There was a chittering noise, it started up front of a large group of human shapes and gradually made its way through the group of forty, maybe fifty.
A putrid stench clawed its way up the slope, decay and mold combining into a smell that could permeate a solid concrete wall, or so it seemed.
The group moved, clothes and flesh alike causing a whisper of a sound as they advanced gradually, eyes glimmering in the full moon just over the horizon. Feet, some clad in shoes, others not, made their way across the damp grassy soil, approached with amazing stealth.
Limbs, some bent or crooked, others not there at all, moved jerkily, much like puppets on tangled strings.
Away from the bush at last, the one up front became visible at last. Sallow skin all over, festering boils turning a cheekbone black, the curve of a once sharp jaw flaccid. Zombie. It was all over the male in ripped jeans, one work boot and a tattered arm that hung limply at his side.
I lay at the top of the hill, my riffle perched on a knoll at the edge and my left eye pressed against the night scope that awarded me with the expected view. A shiver goes down my spine, tension humming through my body at the realization that time is running out. Half a mile to go at least and then we’d be overrun.
My companions and I, (the honeymooners that had run out of gas and had waited by the side of the road. Young Tony who’d been hiding under the crashed fire-department truck. Old Sally and her gardener Pedro. And the two trigger-happy brothers now perched in ancient oak trees on either side of me.) have retreated to this bunker-style house hidden in the side of a mountain-ridge just outside of town.
Them…the zombies…overran the city the night before, and while making my way home, I had no choice but to seek refuge here, where at least we’d be able to make a stand.
My breath comes out with a small puff of smoke in the pale light of the moon, and my fingers feel chilled almost tot the point of numb as I hold the riffle in a firm grip. The weapon is armed and ready, the acrid smell of oil and cordite a sharp reminder of earlier that day when I got to test the weapon’s accuracy on another small group of zombies.
I know I’m supposed to aim for the forehead in order to be the most effective, but in all honesty my aim is still off and having the patience to wait for them to come within reach is almost too hard to bare.
I hate watching them. Their erratic movements like a movie being fast-forwarded, and their rotting flesh a clear reminder that I really should not risk missing, lest they reach us at our hideout.
From the trees on of the two trigger-happy brothers utters a warning whistle, reminding me of the mark we agreed upon when we decided to defend our present position. Rather than run all through the night.
The front zombie, Mr. Tattered Arm, is only ten steps away from the big rock that juts out of the ground near the road that leads on up to the house we occupy.
“Patience,” I remind myself under my breath, lightly tightening my finger on the trigger, almost pulling it. Almost.
Nine.
More jerky movements, a keening wail distracting me towards the female off to Mr. Tattered Arm’s right. Half a dress hangs down her shoulder, red high heels still cling to her feet yet at an extremely slanted angle, and on the left side her once lustrous hair has been burned away. Her face is a Picasso in its horrifying glory.
Mr. Tattered Arm screeches a high sound, jerking my attention back to him.
Six steps…five.
My scope blurs the image for but a moment, my focus just as tardy. There it is, the gaping cheekbone, larvae crawling in and out.
Two…one.
Trigger happy number one starts firing, the woman with the red high heels falling back as if hit in the face by a baseball bat. In the mean time Trigger happy two opens fire as well, hitting Mr. Tattered Arm in the neck. Sluggish blood spurts, but he doesn’t go down, Trigger Two doesn’t care and aims for another while I hear Trigger One shout. “For God’s sake, Sam. Some help please.”
They’re doing pretty well on their own, but I know that I really should stop dawdling before it is too late. The group of zombies have started running after all, now that our firing has allowed them to zoom in on our location more accurately.
“Yeah, yeah!” I call back, and moisten my lips and take aim once more. “Just waiting for them to come a…little…closer.” One shot, and a short, rotund zombie is send sprawling with only half a face. Another spins around mid air, blood spraying out like black rain in the silvery moonlight.
Our ammo is sparse and the creatures running at a neck-breaking speed up the slope. The honeymooners finally join in from the top of the house where they took up position early that afternoon. Gunfire pounds through the ravine until my ears hurt.
Too many. There are too many of them. I know this as I continue to aim, shoot and then all over again. Closer. Faster. Frantic movements while one after the other drops. Not fast enough. Not good enough. Ten yards. Nine.
Screaming and gunfire mix into an orchestra of sound. Two more down, I reload, take aim and…Mr. Tattered Arm is right on top of me. He jumps, I roll and try to take aim. His one good arm is raised, fingers clawed and coming down. My riffle slams is up, the barrel jams under his bloody chin. I pull the trigger…
And wake up. Gawd, I always wake up when stuff gets interesting. Grrrr.
Yeah, I know. Who needs to watch movies with dreams like that, huh? I was positively psyched and revved when I woke up Thursday morning. I thought about maybe writing a book about it, but it’s about zombies, and, well yeah, you know. It’s been done in so many ways that you really can’t think of anything new anymore eh?
So let’s get back to real life for a bit…No. Not today which was just crappy grocery shopping day, remember…and the rocks I’ve been hauling again. Seriously, it was like the good old days. Yesterday I put up a natural rock wall, with clay this time, rather than cement, because it was just for beside the path that goes down to the carport. I hauled rocks like nobody’s business and it is looking good, I tell you. Heck, I even made this little stairs so grandpa can get to the tap in the bushes easier.
I made a small terrace underneath the mimosa behind my cabin, then continued on with the wall until it went up all the way to where we always park the car. I know, the car is supposed to be put in the car port, but for some reason we’re always working on one project or other in there.
But anyway, I put the last four bags of cement on a pallet on the new little terrace, removed dirt and leaves and then helped big brother (he worked on the partition box of the car all day) put the bamboo wooden box in the Land Rover. It looks gorgeous and yes, I have also taken pictures of that. Hah.
I was wonderfully exhausted last night, but as luck would have it, I was unable to sleep during the night. For some reason I couldn’t drop into deep sleep, resulting in me being a tad vague during the course of the day.
Well, that just about sums it all up. My poor doggies need some attention, and I need to get to work on the book. Guess I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.
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