Fields of Rot Read online

  The most important thing to know, those that read this after I die, is that the skeleton is not of anything from this Earth, unless giants really did once roam the world. He uses it as a weapon, a giant battering ram that does insane amount of damage. It stressed the pavement into craters. It crushed through the boxes, shattered anything wooden, and shook on each collision.

  It found us, and trashed the barricades in a matter of seconds. Jack sprayed the thing in the face with this submachine gun and received no noticeable impact. The giant creature knocked Jack away, throwing him to smack against a wall. Grace, frozen in fear, just stared at the monstrosity as it approached. I still don’t trust her, but I couldn’t watch her die, either. I pulled her away from the corner and skimmed by the creature too fast for it to catch us. I stopped to take a shot, and Grace ran to Jack to check up on him.

  I unloaded on the thing, and then came the violent counter attacks. Without any end in sight, the monstrosity swung the skeleton around, thrashing through everything in the room. The supporting beams were hit, and our escape took a sudden turn for the worse. When the grated floor collapsed so did we, and the thing leapt down for the kill.

  It finally reacted. It stretched out its arms, lifted its chin, and screamed in pain. The monster could feel and bleed, so then he could surely die. The monster turned quickly, knocking away the unknown assailant, and returned for us. The crawl space was cut-off by collapsed material. We were like fish in a barrel as the monster swung down forcefully with his skeletal weapon. The ground around us shook, shattered fragments of metal flung in the air, while smoke rose from the increasing flames. The attacks missed us, protected by a simple piece of metal that his brutal attacks couldn’t seem to hit.

  Jack fired a few rounds, nearly grazing me as a consequence. I covered my face as the sounds echoed around me, wreaking my eardrums as I felt my body vibrate to each and every enclosing attack. We were all coughing, wheezing, and struggling for air from all the smoke.

  The monster readied itself for another downward thrust--one that promised to shatter through our cover and send us to an early grave—but as it did, something knocked it from the side. The monster screamed as it fell victim to the powerful swing as it dug into his side. The monster turned to react, but the assailant defeated him with a direct hit to the head.

  Drenched in blood, armed with a modified bass guitar, James Mustang stood prideful. He reached out for my hand, pulling me out from the suffocating space. He offered a saving hand for Grace, who he hugged as if she already meant something to him. Jack, despite what I knew, received a helpful hand and a thankful rub on the shoulder.

  We were fortunate that James Mustang hadn’t died. At least, one of us should have been kissing his feet, but Jack simply said his thanks and tried to move on from it. I pondered then what I ponder now, should I say anything about what happened? Would it matter? I wanted too, and James Mustang saw my worry, but he for some reason associated it to the modification he did to his bass. With pieces of scrap metal grafted to the body, the guitar was now literally an axe. James smiled as he talked about how he managed to find the pieces after surviving that unfortunate moment. He talked the most that night as we waited through the night on a high floor.

  James has defied the odds somehow. I hope that luck will stay around when we finally reach the Hell Gate, assuming we’re even going in the right direction.

  Entry Twenty-Three, 1/6/15

  The walks during the day are become more risky. The streets were once crossable, but now the chance of slipping without detection is minimal, at best. To sum up the situation, the gorge we are required to cross is filled, literally filled, with walkers. Some standing around lazily, lumbering about whenever they catch a whiff of something. Some are crawling along the rough terrain, while others are fighting over rodents. God, this area is fucking rank. The stench of spoiled meat lingers in the air stronger than ever only to increase as the dead begin to populate the gorge even more. I’m not sure where they come from or how they rise, but it appears as if they just happen to spawn. If the dead are spawning from Hell, then what happens when you send them back?

  I don’t want to know the answer just yet. Good news, James tried his crappy cell phone to discover that the lines are finally clear. He can dial out to the groupies he will never see again, hurray. But while James tries his contacts for any answer, I ponder the dreaded thought that perhaps the lines are free because no one is calling anymore. No sudden panic to bog the lines would mean the worse for us. Good news, we’re alone and this area seems to have become a battlefield for those that survive thus far. I think I’ll take the bad news instead. We’re fucked. Completely fucked. James can’t get a single person to answer their phones. Leaving voice mails, the heavy metal rocker somehow ignored the fact that we still needed to find a way cross the gorge since the bridge was blown to pieces.

  Jack has worked with me so far in developing a plan. This wrecked building contains a lot of building supplies that we could use to rig up some sort of platform. The question is how do we buy enough time to use it and escape to the other side?

  Grace, using Jack’s binoculars, reported that the other side seems far less dense than where we are currently. I hope she is correct. I wouldn’t want to do all of this work just to become zombie food.

  Entry Twenty-Four, 1/10/15

  For three and a half days we worked on it. For three and a half days we slaved on an asinine project that could have failed in so many ways. Jack, James, and I worked on building makeshift walls out of sheet metal, rebar, and steel poles. There was no way for us to measure the distance needed, all we could do was gauge from the windows of the third floor as they overlooked the back exit (which I believe was used for a quick dumping of all sorts of stuff). Jack welded the material while James and I gathered the parts. Working under the beating lash of the smoldering heat was aggravating enough, but combined with the stomach-churning stench of decay made concentration almost impossible.

  The first day ended, but I was too tired to write a damn thing. Besides, none of us slept. None of us slacked in fear that the doors would finally falter to the thrashing outside. We continued busting our asses through two more days.

  Our rations were running low, the water was limited, and the food was down to purely the junk of junk food. But the next day ended with the walls ready for deployment.

  James lined a shit load of flammable canisters by the back door, I fastened my bag tighter in fear of losing it, and Jack positioned a makeshift wall in front of us, while Grace stood by the door with her machete thirsting for blood. She flipped the switch and the door slowly opened, revealing a mob of rotting fiends. James threw out a canister and Grace fired a few shots once it reached home. The explosion erupted in chunks, limbs flying, while fire eats at their soiled meat. Jack pushed forward first, but I was quick to offer support. We pushed through the zombie horde with the wall and set it adjacent to the door. Grace offered cover by slashing at the frenzied mass long enough for us to return for another wall. Just as before, Jack and I grabbed another wall, while James and Grace worked together on the demolitions. The zombie mass cleared out in chucks of unrecognizable pieces, but the other clusters ran to our location. They bashed into the walls, trying like hell to get through our haphazard barriers.

  The walls bought us enough time to bring out the bridge of sheet metal, but once we extended it across the gorge one of the walls bent to the stress. We weren’t given a chance to finish. James tossed the last canister at the near defeated wall for Grace to shoot at when it falls. A good plan, but Grace fired too soon, and the explosion was exactly what the zombies needed to get through; she turned their struggle into a moment of ease. They stormed in, and we had no choice but to run across the platform. We all crossed one at a time, but it was still too much weight for the platform to support. It collapsed when Jack was on it; he made it about midway. He shot like crazy at the enclosing mass as they thrashed, running their nails into his skin. He kept firing with on
e hand while busting his ass to reach ours’ with the other. He went for a jump and grasped, but his hands were too sweaty and bloody. His grip slipped and the cluster of undead pulled on him, a few clamped down on his leg. Jack fired the last of his ammo at the eating fiends and kicked away for another chance for escape. He reached James’ hand, and James firmly gripped his arm and pulled him out from the mess.

  Grace was right about the area being less dense, but the debacle and the smell of fresh blood brought a wave of hungry fiends to come our way. We ran towards a corner store, while trying our best to not get caught up in the approaching mass. I fired a few shots, keeping the close ones at bay by severing limbs, but they smacked against the doors as soon as we slammed them shut. James and I went fast and shoved the gondolas against the windows, while Grace examined Jack’s wounds.

  After an hour of rushed, unplanned work, we began to feel more secure about the barricade. The remaining groceries: sodas, candy bars, chips, beer, and wine were thrown off the shelves in a hurry.

  I stocked up my bag with more supplies and took a break in the backroom.

  Jack’s wounds have been treated with the crude medical kit I found back here. I contemplated not revealing my discovery, but James just had to follow me. I could’ve told him the truth then, perhaps I should’ve.

  On another note, there is a computer back here with a dial-up connection. However, I’m too tired at them moment to even think straight.

  If I can, I’m gonna try to get some sleep.

  Entry Twenty-Seven, 1/13/15

  The zombies outside are still as persistent as ever. They can smell our fear, or perhaps they can still smell the blood from Jack’s wounds. We’ve been in this store for days now. Trapped in a cage like rats waiting to be fed to a snake. The windows are shattered, and the decaying fiends have bled all over the blocking metallic gondolas, but they have done little to actually budge them.

  James is still trying his contacts. He claims one has returned a call only to leave a very rushed voice message. He is taking the situation as well as he can by doing what he enjoys best: drinking. Jack and him have consumed a lot of alcohol during the passing days, playing cards while enjoying smokes. Grace stays with them, but I don’t think by choice. Whenever she leaves, wherever she goes, Jack follows. Sort of a strange relationship those two have.

  I’ve been mostly to myself lately. Trying to gain access to the internet with the backroom computer. It took a bit of work, but the browser eventually loaded up. Apparently, during all this down time, my blog has received a swarm of hits. Some of my friends are still uploading information, though they state a not too different situation than mine, it is a relief to hear from them. Some of them were able to make mild jokes about the speed being so much faster now that no one was on. But the jokes died the moment I noticed that other people have encountered the same monstrosities I have. To learn that there are more of those things wrecked my good mood, but the discovery of a certain video labeled as “Genesis” distracted me all too well. A short clip captured via cell phone contained an image of a little girl out in an old cemetery playing with something. The video quality is ultra shitty, but I could tell that a deep red pulse emerged from just below the ground. The girl stood, holding a board of some kind.

  Let me just tell you that what I saw changed everything. I knew after witnessing this strange event unfold that the only way to stop this nightmare once and for all lies in the pact made between her and Satan, assuming that was him. I know it makes absolutely no sense. I know that it would be insane to buy into a pact with Satan because it means that I’ve been wrong….

  Nevertheless, what was shown could not have been reproduced. I know the video was real. I know that it was the product of honest reporting by a very brave person. More importantly, I knew once and for all that nothing else, no matter what, could possibly end this nightmare. We had to close the Hell Gates, but the how would have to involve a cursed Ouija board. The chatter on the forums cause by the video supported and dismissed this idea, both arguments had their merits, but I had to chance it.

  Before I signed off for the night, I checked on Facebook for any signs of family and relatives. The server responded extremely fast, downloading a page the contained hardly any updates. My mom posted: “Had a wonderful vacation, leaving for the airport to return to another year of mundane work ;-)” My aunt was the only one that replied, warning her not to come back to the states, but the warning was regarded as a joke.

  Something within me sank a bit, pressing into my stomach. Remorse, guilt, and sadness washed over me, but I tried my best to control it. I returned to catch the others playing cards while teasing the zombies that struggled against the barriers.

  I remember I stood with my fists firmly clinched, digging my nails into my palms, while staring at the walking dead as they flailed around trying to squeeze through the narrow spaces. Everything else, however, was a blur with the exception of Grace’s machete. My whole vision went red as the rage and vengeful fury took its course.

  After that, according from them, I was beyond reason. I was seconds away from tearing down the barriers as if determined to take on the whole undead army myself. Both James and Jack had to restrain me, pulling me back into a storage room where they locked me up in fear that I would do it again.

  Grace let me out after a few minutes went by.

  We all seem bothered, bidding our time while trying to hold back the pain that idleness brings. Memories are persistent, catching up when boredom sets in, and none of us are spared.

  Entry Twenty-eight, 1/ 14/15

  Despite the ever-lingering stench and the splatter of blood that stains my clothing, today turned out to be rather peaceful in comparison. Jack, having drained all of his ammunition, was forced to use a shovel as a weapon, which served as a very quiet alternative. No enraged crowds swarming our location. No sudden frenzy ready to consume our flesh, just a cluster of fiends to bash our way through as we exited out from the back of the building.

  Grace spotted a cemetery busy with all sort of insane activity on the horizon. We headed for the seclusion of the woods, trying to stay out of detection of those strange Hellish monstrosities.

  So far, the woods have been good to us. Hardly any zombies in this area, and the ones we found were too decayed to pose as a threat. We settled in a clearing, literally setting up camp. James insists of staying here for a while, but I don’t think we have the time to waste. However, James managed to talk Grace into walking with him along the creek before I could get a word in edgewise.

  Jack isn’t difficult to talk to, just very short and simple. He is rather blunt and inconsiderate, shutting down any chance of conversation when I joked about his woman going off with another guy. Then again, I’m not well known for my social grace. No pun intended.

  The time alone caused his resistance to die down, and Jack told me of his story. I already suspected that Jack had some sort of military experience from his behavior and attitude, but I didn’t suspect that he was somehow involved with a band of disgruntled survivors that called themselves the Marauders. Apparently they formed a little before the media began running their horridly butchered reports, and intended to protect those that came into contact with the strange walkers. They would run patrols during the night, examining the backcountry for any signs of zombies, hunting them down with accuracy and proficiency. They protected the neighborhood from a threat the news thought to be non-existent.

  Their noble crusade expanded. They worked hard to cover-up any one’s encounter with these walking fiends, but obviously from the reports they weren’t able to protect everyone. They continued to assist those caught with murder with the best intentions, but their helping hand received a nasty backlash. Once news broke out about their existence, it didn’t take long for the networks to spin it as an underground terrorist activity. After all, they were acting without an official command, using illegal weaponry, and most were ex-military.

  From description alone, this group sou
nded wholesome, like the type of people we should be looking for, but then it began to set in. When the shit hit the fan and all hell broke loose, the Marauders were no longer there to offer support. Hunted down and persecuted, it didn’t take long for the members to take on a different perspective. Besides, most felt as if recognition and respect were to be paid for their duty. So they began storming houses for members, resources, and anything else they could use.

  According to Jack, he was only in the group for a short time, under the impression that they meant what they claimed they stood for. He claims he disbanded once he noticed that they were simply terrorizing the neighborhood, acting like petty thugs with military-grade weaponry.