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  I found James, again. I sort of owe it to him to drop my previous comments regarding his character. I found him a few paces away from the garage where I stayed, and we were about to discuss some very important matters when an onslaught of zombies overcame us. I ran, cornered, and forced to fight them off with my bare hands. I fended for myself, knocking them away, pushing the decaying bodies far enough to make for a few feet. They eventually caught up, tackling me, one of them chomped on my thigh, digging its fractured canines though my pants and into my skin. Suddenly, I became my very own test subject. I kicked wildly, and shot out for the small opening of freedom. Using a chunk of rotten wood as a weapon, I fought the hungry savages off and climbed a fence leading to a densely wooded area.

  Bleeding from my leg, limping from the pain, and breathing heavily, I can see why the backwards redneck greeted me with a twelve-gauge. He looked through my fear as if I was on the verge of turning into one of those horrid things. I pleaded, tried to reason, but the man refused to listen. I could understand being guarded and fearing the unknown, but on the receiving end it seemed completely irrational.

  With hands tied behind my back, I sat on the floor of a small workshop. No food, no water, and yet he would visit me every day for about ten minutes examining my features as if studying a supposed transformation. That bastard mistook starvation and dehydration for stages of a zombie metamorphosis. He was testing me, and it seemed absurd to me that some hillbilly would have the brainstem capable of drafting this sort of plan.

  I still don’t know how James managed to get caught (I gave up trying to talk to him). Somehow James ended up right next to me, bound by rope and teased by the redneck. Then came the beatings. Frequently throughout the night, the door would open and the sound of metal scraping across cement would ring in my ear. A hard force would beat against my chest, my legs, and shoulders. How we managed to escape was merely by chance. James used a metal shard to cut through the rope, and once we were free, the redneck had not the slightest chance in hell.

  James found his bass outside the shed. Full of rage, he wanted to storm the house for any like-minded people, but I convinced him otherwise. We were lucky to escape, and I would rather chance against zombies than with another human encounter.

  From this entry alone, it is obvious that we made it back to the garage, and that I found my bag left alone where I stashed it. My laptop and cell phone, however, were taken. I can’t even imagine what we will do now that we’ve lost our only means of guidance. Metallica’s Fade to Black suddenly comes to mind, and as the night grows dark, I wait to the sound of a static radio.

  Entry Twelve, 12/23/14

  My hand is trembling as I scribble this. I can’t control the fear, the inevitability of death has become more and more apparent. I sit on the floor with my head placed against the wall in a room complete with darkness. I stare at the shotgun, realizing that the final shell better be the only one needed. I hope he doesn’t come here. I hope that thing stays where we left him, beaten down in the garage, but I don’t think he will. Why do I doubt so much? Why must I be so fucking pessimistic?

  James stares through the peephole, scoping for any signs for the things approach. He whispers a string of trash under his breath, and though it lightens the situation, the knob in front of me continues to turn.

  Entry Fourteen, 12/26/14

  This house has been compromised, but not by zombies, not even another one of those transparent motherfuckers, but by people. Sad that I would rather deal with the undead than another living person, but they show know sign of being trustworthy. Like a pack of wild dogs, the gang walks through the house following the behavior of their alpha. They talk of slaughter, zombie carnage, and of monstrosities I wouldn’t ever want to encounter.

  Fucking shit! There are in the room, right now.

  They grabbed some of the gear stashed in this cluttered room and left. Laughing, drinking, the crew went outside to fire shots at the wandering dead, not at all concern of the repercussions. I’m surprised they haven’t spotted me under the bed.

  Entry Fifteen, 12/27/14

  James saved my ass, once again. He led the group to believe that something was amiss, and with the backdoor left wide open, the fuckers didn’t stop for a second guess. That’s why they went outside shooting their rifles like a group of Rambos. But where James saved my ass, I was quick enough to grab some of the supplies they had stockpiled: a box of shotgun shells, a handful of snacks, and several bottles of water. James wanted to steal the Jeep, but the sight of the cluttered street, which appeared more and more like a war zone, changed his mind.

  I still think foot is the best means of travel for the moment, but the strain aggravated James to the point to where he was beginning to question our direction. He was too antsy to control, and my stern reminder of the massing undead did nothing in the end. He abandoned cover to gain a sense of direction. Following his sorry ass, we gathered at the back of a convenient store and watched as cop cars drove by as if racing for a rescue. The cruisers plowed several zombies. One of them crashed directly into the thick wave, whereas the others headed for the parking lots, dodging clusters with sharp over reactions. I still don’t know what they intended to do, I bet the radios blared with some juicy information, but zombies crawled on them like ants on a piece of chocolate.

  The fiasco cleared the streets long enough for us to run through with little difficulty. I recognized the parallel street from the familiar businesses, and I believe it was the one that would lead us to one of the supposed Hell Gates. I can’t have James discover that I’m simply running on whim. I highly doubt he would find anything comforting about that. Fortunately for me, he has become distracted by another survivor, whom of which I will refer to as Grace. A very distressed young, shorthaired woman, but at least she hasn’t tried to kill us… yet.

  We found her in the same damn place we find ourselves trapped in, a fucking clothing store. If I were to believe her story, she was waiting for another to return. What a fucking waste.

  The upside is that I’ve located a medical supply kit, and should be able to treat my wounds soon enough, but right now the zombies bash against the barricaded doors, taunting us.

  Entry Seventeen, 12/28/14

  I highly doubt I’ll be able to continue this log for much longer. With the increase in undead activity—the streets are literally crawling with the dead like ants in an upset ant bed—the little time I already had is threatened with just about every daring step. I scribble this under the stale glow of a dying emergency light as I huddle into a corner away from them. Slow and stupid, the zombies just below us reach with the same enthusiasm. I just hope that James finds a way to rescue the guy that somehow got himself locked behind extremely thick security doors.

  The contraption mentioned in the previous log, the one that I so wanted to inform others about to claim my fair share of bragging rights. Being without my laptop and cell phone feels like I’m beginning to lose sight.

  It fucking pisses me off that James wanted to help that stupid bitch. I don’t trust her for a minute, and as much as I dislike James at the moment, I can’t deny his advantage. Fortunately the makeshift barrier worked, at least just enough to get us here. A simple but clever design orchestrated from a table, a few metal clothing displays, and shit load of tape and belts to fasten it all together. Unlike my boast in the previous log, the contraption survived only a few minutes before the continuous zombie plowing wore it down. In the end, James and I resorted to hauling ass into this shit-hole manufacturing warehouse. I’m confident that we won’t survive another episode of this shit.

  James thanks all this writing will lead to nothing, that I’m wasting my time. Perhaps, but if there is anyone out there, then maybe all of this will prove useful, then again, maybe it won’t matter after all. I’m not so sure anymore, and James is actually contemplating detonating canister of gas next to the door to free the poor son-of-a-bitch.

  Entry Eighteen, 12/29/14

  We barely mad
e it back before nightfall, fighting through a cluster of dead things with the light of a fading sun. The city lights haven’t turned on today… More importantly, James didn’t make it back. I wanted to go back and save him, pay him back for all of those other times, but the situation wouldn’t allow it. After he set off the explosives the industrial door shattered, but so did part of the catwalk we were on, creating quite a pit for the other to traverse. The man entrapped leapt across, meeting up with us as we headed towards a window in our effort to flee before the zombies ascended to our level. I can’t say exactly what happened, but I can guess it had something to do with the blazing dead wandering around, crawling near extremely flammable areas. Another explosion erupted, taking out a huge chunk of the grated floor, leaving James with an impossible leap.

  He went for it, of course he would, but my hands couldn’t reach. He fell, dropping a few stories before rolling along the ground for cover. He attacked wildly with his bass guitar and demanded for us to leave without him.

  The man we saved was armed with a submachine gun, and was dedicated to his aim. He had enough ammo to drop the walkers along our path but not enough to save James? I knew trusting her would lead to nothing. This ex-military badass might be a living example of two great action heroes Chuck Norris, and Jack Bauer, but his lack of consideration prevents me from liking him. I only followed because I agreed with him during the moment, but now, as I recall the events, I would’ve rather pushed the fucker into the savage fray.

  The two worthless assholes appear to have some sort of connection, nothing amazing, nothing even worth fighting for. They share a bag of stale chips while I sit in solitude at the other end of the store. They’ve already attempted to question me, but I couldn’t work up the effort to talk to them. The very sight of them pissed me off.

  That Jack Norris fucker might have a stash of weapons, but he will find it impossible to talk me out of my rations.

  Sorry, James Mustang. Sorry I never had the chance to hear you play. Sorry I never took you seriously.

  Entry Nineteen, 12/30/14

  New year’s eve. The morning started with beautiful break of day, peering out from behind the remains of a small town swimming with a growing mass of walking rot. The hungry, deathly moans hummed in my ear; funny how I became used to it. Perhaps habituation is starting to kick in, or maybe I’m distracted by the alarming curiosity of the other two.

  I didn’t sleep at all, not willing to risk a slit neck by the hands of those savages. Grace and Jack watched me all night long. They whispered amongst each other, trying to keep their plan a secret, but Grace kept nodding my way. I knew they were brewing something, and I didn’t have time for any more bullshit. I held on to my thoughts the best I could, redirecting them back to my self-assigned mission. The task sounded simple at first, but now with James gone and an increase of strange, nightmarish activity, my doubt grew.

  The two had the nerve to probe me for answers. Jack even raised his gun at me, while Grace threatened me with a bloody machete. I told them only what they needed to know: that I was searching for a way to stop all of this madness. They laughed. Of course they laughed. I wouldn’t expect a reasonable reaction from those dull minded fools. Jack stated there was no fixing of anything, and Grace just continued to laugh, teasing me with her disbelief.

  James, I am sorry. But I couldn’t stand the feeling of being misunderstood any longer. It crawled beneath me, tainting my mind with its corrosive vile. Defensively, I told them everything. I shared with them various details about my blog, my journal, personal findings, and the mission.

  Jack became resistant. He refused to believe and threatened me by gunpoint not to say another word. He refrained from killing me and taking my supplies when he had the chance. Grace didn’t seem all too concerned about anything, lost in her own thoughts. He could’ve blasted my brains across the wall, but he released me and devised a plan that I couldn’t agree more with.

  I’m suspicious for as to the reason, but Jack was convinced that we needed to move to another location, something about this area being compromised even though it wasn’t. I’ve decided to follow them. They were willing to incorporate me, but I still refuse to trust them.

  He laughed, once again, when I suggest that we should look for James. He claimed that no man could survive that.

  Entry Twenty, 1/1/15

  So much to write about. I never thought I the feeling of sadness would find me, but then again, I think I’ve been avoiding it for quite a while. It isn’t simply just this living Hell that I find myself in, it is a combination of life experiences recollected as a central feeling of extreme weakness infected me. My thoughts are drifting; the images of my father invade, taking me to those wasted years. I can’t help but to recall the moment with my father where I felt so afraid, so helpless. A family vacation promised a beautiful view and a pleasant time, but I was petrified of the water because of an insignificant and completely trivial matter. Something as small as a pinch somehow cursed me to fear stepping foot into the tide. My dad, so patient and yet slightly annoyed, tried to help, but I simply didn’t listen. I stayed inside for the rest of the trip, entertaining myself with crap TV and misery.

  When I think about how much we have lost so far. The mass carnage, the lawlessness of this land, it seems like my parents may never actually return. I stayed while they went on another yearend vacation, and I wonder if I made the right choice. They could be sipping on margaritas down in the tropics right now, while their son fought for his life in a zombie wasteland.

  The thoughts washed over me all of a sudden during a moment where I needed to be on my game. We crossed the street, ran like hell as a swarm chased after us, and cleared a nook just above a few dumpsters for an advantage point. I was supposed to supply the cover fire as the rotting fiends climbed to the top of the dumpster. Then it came, the feeling entered as if it had always been there and rattled my nerves. My aim became lazy. My motivation became a matter of question, and I felt as if I was a stranger in my own body viewing the scene as if it was a movie.

  My arm stopped pumping rounds into the chamber for just one tiny moment, but it was enough for a zombie to make it to the top. The blood crazed eyes stared at me as it lunged for me. I simply stood in place, watching as a burst of blood erupted from the side of its head, as chunks of gunk sprayed about.

  The sound of Jack’s gun shook me out from my sudden stupor. I followed him along the ledge to a wide window that led to a decommissioned facility.

  Except with the moans from outside, it is quiet. Very quiet. I swear I can hear something bang several floors below us, but Jack and Grace think I’m trying to scare them. Like I would take pleasure in scaring them when I am already afraid myself. I’m afraid of what lurks below, but I’m more afraid of freezing like that again. I don’t want to owe Jack a damn thing, not a single fucking thing.

  I still can’t help the thoughts. They storm into my mind, lingering with a depressing, heavy presence. I miss my family. I miss my friends, but most importantly, I miss my old life. Why can’t it just go back? Why can’t things just stop?

  Grace appears just as lost as I am, whereas Jack seems completely collected. Lucky, son-of-a-bitch. I wish I had that. I wish I could return to not giving a shit. I wish I could.

  The sound from below gradually increased, finally grabbing their attention. Grace freaked out and huddled in a corner, while Jack quickly began barricading the door. He requested for some assistance, but Grace was too worked up and I didn’t want to turn this room into more of a trap than it already was. I offered my opinion, but he refused the moment I revealed my opposition.

  I hope that my parents are okay. I hope I can prevent this pessimism from overgrowing into complete depression.

  Entry Twenty-One, 1/3/15

  I might have enough time to jot this down, but I’m not too sure. The sounds heard earlier were not the product of a zombie, a cluster of zombies, or a whole goddamn army of rotting fiends. No, the sound below was the product o
f one single monstrous entity that made running through a throng of zombies look safe. I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know where to begin to describe it other than the skeleton that hung over his shoulders. The colossal was double the size of James Mustang, wore dark rags, and a shattered welding mask of some sort obscured his face.